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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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Yea, Fame, or bread, or whatever tJtoii bt 
I shed the wine of my life for thee ! 



LYRICS 



FREEDOM, LOVE AND DEATH 



BY THE LATE 



GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON 



EDITED BY HIS BROTHER 



J3 



CHARLES J. CAMERON, M.A. 

queen's university, KINGSTON 






BOSTON 

ALEXANDER MOORE, 3 SCHOOL ST. 

KINGSTON 

LEWIS W. SHANNON, 67- PRINCESS ST. 



.C77 ^ ^ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, by 
Alexander Moore, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at 
Washington. 




G^onl^nt^. 



Dedication ... 
Lyrics on Freedom ... 
I. Cuba 

Proem .. 

She is Not Mine 

My Political Faith 

Justice 

Forward ! 

But Words 

Defeated Oft 

Columbia vs. Freedom 

Nay, Strike Again 

The Cuban Dead ... 

'Tis Done ! 

Take Heart !... 

Ave Atque Vale... 



I 
3-60 

6 
7 
9 
10 
II 
12 
13 

14 
16 

17 
18 
20 
21 



Contents. 



II. Russia 

Alexis Romanoff ... ... ... 24 

The "Divine Right" 27 

Columbia — Russia! ... ... ... 3° 

What Means This Pageantry ? 32 

Our Poets 35 

The Czar 36 

To The Czar 37 

The Czar 4° 

III. France 

Thy Sky is Dim 43 

The Future 45 

In After Days 5° 

IV. Columbia 

Columbia ... -.. ••• ••• ••• 54 

Our Hero Dead 5S 

Bunker Hill 59 

V. Erin 60 

Lyrics on Love 61-136 

Thou Goest Thy Way 62 

Love's Decease ... ... •• ••• 63 

Beneath The Roses 64 

Forgive Thee ... ... ••• ••• 66 

Remember Thee ... ... ••• 67 



Contents. 



The Defeat of Love... ... ... ... 68 

To Adelle... ... ... ... ... 71 

Epimetheus ... ... ... ... ... 72 

Thou Hast Done It— Not I 75 

I Thought that Time ... ... ... 76 

June 77 

Rehcs... ... ... ... ... ... 78 

Amoris Finis ... ... ... ... 79 

Forgetting 80 

Farewell ! ... ... ... ... 81 

In Dreams ... ... ... ... ... 82 

To Miss lasigi ,.. ... ... _. 83 

Bon Voyage ... ... ... ... ... 85 

The Beacon Hill Coquette ... ... 86 

I Saw Your Beauty... ... ... ... 8g 

My Southern Nights ... ... ... 90 

I Cannot Kiss This Stranger ... ... 91 

The Dreams that Have Faded 92 

Apart 93 

Aperotos ... ... ... ... .. 94 

To Isabel ... ... ... ... ... 95 

Lurline ... ... ... ... ... 96 

Thou Art Like Earth ... ... ... 97 

Song -. q8 



Contents. 



Love. To ... .. ... ... 99 

A Welcome ... ... ... ... loo 

Then — and Now ... ... ... ... 102 

We Met, We Parted. To ... 103 

Is It My Fate? To 105 

True Love and Tried ... ... ... 106 

By The Fountain ... ... ... ... 107 

Shall This, Too, Fail Me ? ... ... no 

Consistency .. ... ... ... ... in 

My Life ... ... ... ... "... H2 

What New Found Pain is This ... ... 113 

Cursed be the Bigotry ... ... ... 114 

Would I Drink It ? '.. 115 

The Common Fate ... ... ... 116 

My Love-compelling Love ... .. 117 

Thou Art My Friend ? 118 

" Away from Me." ... ... ... ... 120 

Is There a God ? ... ... ... 121 

Is The God?... ... ... ... ... 122 

To a Coquette ... ... ... ... 123 

Passion ... ... ... ... ... 125 

Why Fruitlessly Mourn We?.. ... " 126 

Bring a Fitting Shroud ! ... ... ... 127 

'Tis Strange, You Think ... ... 128 



Contents. 



Nay, I May Never Love Again ! ... ... 129 

My Marriage Morning ... ... ... 130 

A Question ... ... ... ... ... 132 

True Love ... ... ... ... 133 

First Love ... ... ... ... ... 134 

All I Ask... 135 

Standing on Tiptoe... ... ... ... 136 

Adelphi ... ... ... ... ... ... 137-146 

Lyrics in Pleasant Places and Other PLACES147-223 

Wisdom — A Sonnet ... ... ... 148 

Downs and Ups ... ... ... ... 149 

Anticipation ... ... ... ... 151 

Past and Future ... ... ... ... 152 

The Best Philosophy ... ... ... 154 

With a Faith 155 

At the Cross-roads ... ... 157 

On Life's Sea ... ... ... ... 158 

All Heart Sick ... ... ... ... 160 

The Roses and Thorns of Life ... ... 161 

The Mayflower ... ... ... ... 162 

Edgar Allen Poe ... ... ... ... 163 

Quid Refert ? 164 

When Every Hope... ... ... ... i65 

On 167 



Contents. 



On McDonald Clarke ... i68 

To 169 

A Face ... ... ... ... ... 170 

John Milton 171 

Three Sonnets. On Leaving Nova Scotia, 

1874 172 

True Greatness ... ... ... ... 175 

To John Rhode. A Postal 177 

Tybee ... .178 

Insulae Fortunatae ... ... ... ... 179 

To My Brother Charley .., ... 181 

The Golden Text ... ... ... .. 182 

The "Week" vs. Wendell Phillips ... r84 

Man, Boast Not of Thy Friends 186 

Discontent ... ... ... ... 187 

To Wendell Phillips 188 

My Faith 189 

I Am Young... ... .... ... ... igo 

The Poet's Reason ... ... ... 191 

To the West Wind 192 

To Louise ... ... ... ... 193 

Sic Transit ... ... ... ... ... 198 

What They Meant ... 199 

The Way of the World 200 



Contents. 



O Lady Fair and Debonair ... ... 202 

Bunker Hill, 1885 205 

Hopes and Fears ... ... ... 206 

Oh, Never May the Shadow of the Past. 

To ... ... ... ... 207 

As Some Swift Star. To ... ... 208 

" Our Boys " ... ... ... ... 209 

Ere the Moon that Wanes... ... ... 211 

They Say I Sing Too Sad a Strain ... 213 

To John Carruthers, Esq., Glenvale ... 214 

Lord Byron ... ... ... ... 215 

With All My Singing 216 

To Charley ... .,, ... ... 217 

To My Daughter Jessie ... ... ... - 218 

The Days of Long Ago ... ... 219 

Because! ... ... ... ... ... 221 

The Land of Dreams ... ... ... 223 

YsoLTE ... ... ... ... ... 225-248 

Lyrics on Death ... ... ... ... 249-274 

An Answer ... ... ... ... ... 250 

Rest ... ... ... ... ... 252 

Shelley ... ... ... ... ... 255 

Dead! 258 

Untimely ... ... ... ... ... 259 



Contents. 



On the Death of a Child ... ... 261 

In Memoriam ... ... ... ... 263 

Death ... ... ... 267 

A Year After. A Sonnet 271 

In Memoriam ... ... ... ... 272 

From the Sea ... ... ... ... 274 

Sacred ... ... ... ... ... ... 275-278 

Lord God Almight}^ ... ... ... 276 

He is Risen ... ... ... ... 278 

His Last Lyrics ... ... ... ... 280-294 

Beyond the Utmost Doubts and Deeps 282 

To God the Auditor of all Accounts ... 285 

What Matters it ? 286 

My Fate. — His Last Poem ... ... 289 

L'Envoi. To the Poets of the Past and 
Future... 

The Past 293 

The Future ... ... ... ... ... 294 




Pt^^f^ee. 



TO THE CRITIC. 



In accordance with the last wishes of the author, the 
first portion of his manuscript is here submitted to your 
judgment. This volume represents about one fourth 
of his life work. If it is well received, the rest will fol- 
low in due course. This is a Canadian contribution to 
our common literature, and I hope that it may be 
thought b}' the old world a worthy interpreter of our 
younger and broader national life. 

Of the Lyrics on Freedom, those on Cuba were writ- 
ten between the ages of fourteen and nineteen, on France 
about his eighteenth or nineteenth year, and on Russia 
between then and the time of his death. The verses 
prefixed to each are from an address written by the 
author while a student of Queen's University, and in- 
serted as an introduction to that which follows. 

In its issue of Friday, Sept. i8th, 1885, the Mofitreal 
Witness contained, as its first item of Canadian News, 
the following : — 



Preface. 

On Thursday night, George F. Cameron, late editor 
of the Kingston Neu's, died suddenly. He was a grace- 
ful writer and a prominent Canadian poet. 

This was the sum of the story of his life, so far as the 
world could tell it. The high position which he took 
in Canadian literature he won almost in a day, on a few 
lyrics published in his own paper and in the columns 
of the Queen's College Journal. The preface to this 
conclu-sion you will find here. 

Young, as the world counts time, at thirty years of 
age he had run the whole gaimit of its pleasures and 
its pains. There was to him a terrible sameness about 
it all.— 

Golden prospects and ominous clouds : 

Impassable walks and level drives : 
Glittering silks and colorless shrouds : 
Flattering records and shattered lives, 
These were the elements of its every change, and to his 
eternal quid novi ? it had nothing further to answer. 
So that he who had begun life by being an enthusiast 
had almost finished it by becoming a cynic. 
All heartsick and headsick and weary, 

Sore wounded, oft struck in the strife, 
I ask is there end of this dreary 
Dark pilgrimage called by us life ? 



Preface. 

I ask, is there end of it — any ? 

If any, when comes it anigh ? 
I would die, not the one death, but many 

To know and be sure I should die. 
To know that Somewhere — in the distance. 

When Nature shall take back my breath, 
I shall add up the sum of existence 

And find that its total is — death ! 

It was impossible, being what he was, that his poetry 
should be free from occasional pessimism. This was 
the natural product of the circumstances of his life. It 
was necessary from the character of the age in which 
he wrote : it was inevitable from the quality of his own 
mind. 

It is not without meaning that he sings in the last 
Springtime of his life. 

We reach for rest, and the world wheels by us 
And leaves us each in our vale of tears ; 

Till the green sod covers and nought comes nigh us 
With hopes and fears. 
Nor that in its last month we hear him say, as he looks 
out into the unknown. 

For we shall rest. The brain that planned, 
That thought or wrought or well or ill. 



Preface. 

At gaze like Joshua's moon shall stand, 

Not working any work or will ; 
While eye, and lip, and heart, and hand 

Shall all be still— shall all be still ! 
The truest life of a poet is written in his songs. Why 
then, go further ? If they hear not Moses and the pro- 
phets, — You know the rest. 

From the Present he asked nothing : and from the 
Future — but, let him speak for himself: — 
We only ask it as our share 

That, when your day-star rises clear, 
A perfect splendor in the air, 
A glory ever far and near, 
Ye write such words as these — of those who icere ! 
I have one favor to ask of the critic, and one only. 
Read him, before you review him. 

Remember that he is with the dead, and do him jus- 
tice. I ask no more, and the editor of these songs 
needs to ask no more. 

How will the world receive him ? With coldness, 
may be : it may be with pleasure. In any case it will 
matter little to him, who, as I pen these words, sleeps 
peacefully beneath the daisies in the land which gave 
him birth. 

128 Union St., Kingston, 
October 6th, 1887. 



HIS LIFE. 

George Frederick Cameron, the author of the fol- 
lowing poems, the eldest son of James Grant Cameron, 
and Jessie Sutherland, was born in New Glasgow, 
Nova Scotia, September 24th, 1854. He received his 
preliminary education at the High School of his native 
town, and had read the greater part of Virgil and Cicero 
in the original before his fourteenth yeRv. Even at this 
age he employed the most of his spare time in poetry. 
Removing with his family to Boston in the spring of 
i86g, he entered the Boston University of Law, in 1872. 
After graduation, he entered the law office of Dean, 
Butler and Abbot in the same city. From this period 
until 1882 his attention was mainly devoted to literature 
and he was a frequent contributor to the Commercial 
Btdletiii, Traveller, Courier and Transcript of the new 
Athens of America. In 1882 he entered Queen's Univer- 
sity and was the prize poet in 1883. 

In March of the same year he became Editor of the 
Kingston News, which position he held until a few weeks 
before his death. The latter event took place during a 
visit to the country, where, on the 17th of September, 
he expired of heart disease after a few hours sickness. 



His Life. 

For the last two years of his hfe he had been greatly 
troubled with insomnia, getting not more than from 
two to three hours sleep per night. 

He married Ella, the eldest daughter of Billings 
Amey, Esq., of Millhaven, on the twenty-second of 
August, 1883. His wife and an infant daughter sur- 
vive him. 

That the author did not bubble over in his verse 
with loyalty to the throne and all it represents was 
perhaps his infirmity. I tried to persuade him of the 
advantages such a course would offer to a poor poet like 
himself, but, I regret to say, to no purpose. Whether 
the reason of failure lay in the weakness of the cause or 
in his want of faith in my sincerity is a moot question 
with me to this day. 




De;oie(\i'ion. 



TO 

JESSIE SUTHERLAND CAMERON. 

Oh, can there be in any laord or line 

For mother-love a fitting recompense ? — 
For mother-love immortal, or intense 

As if it were immortal and divine. 

And more perceptible to the bodily sense ? 

If recompense there be in word or phrase 
For such a love forever brimming o'er, 
Despising common tide-mark, common shore, 

Watering the Jlozuers about life's desert ways 
And causing them to flourish more and more ; — 

// recompense there be in poem or prose, 
I, who desire to know it, know it not : 
It lies beyond me still, though I have sought — 

That I might pay thine oivn to thee — to close 
My hand upon it in the maze of thought. 

Yet, if I may not pay my debt complete. 
Still, as a slight percentage from me, take 
My love and this: a later wave may break 

In richer ripples, mother, at thy feet : 

But, — take these now, and keep them for my sake ! 



Lyi^ie^ on Pi^e;^oorr^. 

There have been kings ! There have been kings !- 

Proclaim it while it is to-day : 

For lo ! the ages pass away, — 
And men will doubt there were such things 

Ere many centuries decay. 




G^^U. 



Long time she labored sore, and lay 
The sport of Spain's imperial whim, 

While cowards, in a coward's pay, 

Tore shrieking Freedom limb from limb. 

But lo ! A better morrow broke 
To light her every vale and hill, — 

For, though she wears the Spanish yoke, 
And speaks her Master's language still ; 

And though she takes her laws as yet 
From o'er the sea — what Spain hath lost 

Spain will not, in an hour, forget. 
Nor what the losing lesson cost. 

O Cuba ! May the Eternal ring 

Thee round about, and make thee free, — 
A flawless gem, a perfect thing, 

The sunniest Island of the sea. 



January ist, li 



p 



roem, 



No Spanish blood I boast, but to 
That holy hope of man I cling 
Which makes him free of lord and king ; 

Who asks of me a reason due 
I give it to him while I sing : 

For I am of that forlorn hope 
That is the only hope of man, — 

/From corner stone to curve and cope 
I am a cosmopolitan ! 



1868—1873. 

In 1869 the Island was one scene of carnage. Frightful atrocities were com- 
mitted by the Spanish troops in Havana and other cities. Up to August 1872, 
13,000 Cubans had been killed in battle, and 43,500 prisoners put to death. Over 
150,000 soldiers had been sent out from Spain.— C. J. C. 



SHE IS NOT MINE. 

She is not mine — this land of tears, 
But her high cause is mine, and was. 
And shall be, till my thought shall pause 

Upon the measure of its years 
To ponder over larger laws. 

And since her cause is mine, and man's — 
Else it were never mine — I hold 
That I may speak in accents bold 

For Liberty and all her plans, 
And her high phases manifold. 

I would not speak for blood, nor will 
I dream too long of that long lease 
Of days when war and strife shall cease, - 

When that accursed cry of " kill " / 
Shall change into the calm of peace : 



She is not Mine. 



But yet — I speak my thought — but yet, 
Should it be so that some must die 
A sacrifice for hberty, 

Let tyrant blood alone be let, — 
Let despots' veins alone be dry ! 

Without fair Liberty to make 

The key-stone of the world's whole plan, 
The arch we heap o'erhead will break, 
And some fair morrow man will wake 

To find beneath the ruins — man ! 




MY POLITICAL FAITH. 

I am not of those fierce, wild wills, 
Albeit from loins of warlike line, 
To wreck laws human and divine 

Alike, that on a million ills 

I might erect one sacred shrine 

To Freedom : nor again am I 

Of these who could be sold and bought 
To fall before a Juggernaut : 

rhold all " royal right " a lie — 

Save that a royal soul hath wrought ! 

It is in the extreme begins 

And ends all danger : if the Few 
Would feel, or if the Many knew 

This fact, the mass of fev/er sins 

Would shrive them in their passing through 

O'er all God's footstool not a slave 
Should under his great glory stand, 
For men would rise, swift sword in hand, 

And give each tyrant to his grave 
And freedom to each lovely land. 



JUSTICE?- 

Again defeated, gallant land ! 

Again thy hopes are in the dust : 
Again thy throat receives the thrust 

From tyrant steel in tyrant hand, 

And coward lips that call it — " just." 

This Justice ! Perish justice — all 
And every high and noble deed. 
And every righteous cause and creed, 

If it be just for men to fall 

To serve or sate a despot's greed ! 

This Justice ! By the God who rules 

Above the spheres of thought and things, 
There is a day that comes and brings 

Pure justice to the fools and tools 

Who crouch to, write or fight for kings ! 



'Suggested by a paragraph from the pen of some scribbler who is, and deserves 
to be — nameless. — G. F. C. 



ID 



FORWARD! 

Soldiers, forward for your honor ! 
Forward every gallant band, — 
Forward for your mother-land : 

Freedom yet shall smile upon her : 
Forward, Cubans, heart and hand ! 

Do not tyrants, long prevailing, 
Sweep your isle with desolation ? 
Drink the life-blood of your nation ? 

Smile to hear your widows' wailing ? 
Use the sword ! — 'tis your salvation. 

Use the sword ! — with it contending 
Ye will conquer soon or late : 
Ye will make your country's fate : 

Ye will see her star ascending 
Calm and beautiful and great ! 



II 




BUT WORDS? 

What can I give ? but words — no more ? 
Not now — to-day : yet words being wed 
With Truth that quickens even the dead 

Have shaken thrones and Things before, — 
Have moulded men who moulded lead, 

And shot it through a thousand shields 
Of despots to their thousand hearts, 
Despite their cells and felon-carts, 

Their guillotines, and battle fields, — 
Yea, spite of war and all her arts ! 



And words may do what words have done, 
Ay, words as weak as mine are weak : 
Though, should but now the elder speak, 

I need not, for to-morrow's sun 

Might seek a slave, — and vainly seek ! 



DEFEATED OFT. 

Defeated oft, — defeated still ! 
All holy is the patriot's cause : 
All holy is the sword he draws : 

All holy Nature's Sinai-hill 

From which alone he takes his laws. 

Weep not for those who died to-day — 
The brave who take their latest rest ! 
They slumber on their mother's breast 
Their glory, mortal 5'esterday, 

To-day immortal stands confest. 

Not even their blood is shed in vain ; — 
In fertile soil still falls such seed ; 
And from each drop that heroes bleed 

A thousand heroes spring again,- — 
Each drop a Cadmus-tooth, indeed. 



13 




COLUMBIA vs. FREEDOMS 

Go, vaunt Columbia's glory, ye 

Who cower beneath the glance of Spain ! 

Admit that Freedom's war is vain : 
Admit 'tis vulgar to be free. 

And better far to hug a chain ! 

Unworthy sons of worthy sires 
Go to your senate-halls, and tell 
The world that tyranny is well. 

Albeit it quench fair Freedom's fires 
And make the earth a very hell ! 



*To their dishonor be it said, many of the American newspapers wrote as 
American statesmen (sic !) spoke against the Cubans in their magnificent struggle 
lor Liberty. Talis liberorum virtus 1 

14 



Columbia vs. Freedo 



m. 



Then gaze where Caribbean waves 
Loll calm on desecrated sands ; 
Where Freedom cheers her weary bands 

Where heroes dig heroic graves 
With their own hero-hands. 

Then turn again, and, if you dare. 
Pronounce that Spain is in the right : 
Pronounce his fight a holy fight : 

Pronounce the Cuban cause a snare : 
Tell earth there is no right but might ! 




15 



NAY, STRIKE AGAIN. 

O verdured Islands of the main — 
Fair emerald glories of the sea ! 

Strike hard ! strike fast ! Nay, strike again 
And strike — till ye are free ! 

Dispute each pebble and each sod, 
Each lofty mountain, mossy glen. 

Fit for the footsteps of a god, — 
And fit for free and noble men ! 

Shrink not from toil ! the boon 5^ou crave 

Is only worth}^ of the brave : — 
It may be worth alike a grave ! 

Swear to be free, or die ! 

'Tis all ye need : 
Cowards live on and sigh, — 

But brave men bleed ! 



i6 



THE CUBAN DEAD. 

Oh, weep not for them, for all time shall deplore them ! 

To the keeping of ages each sorrow resign : 
The bard shall bewail them, a world shall weep o'er 
them, — 

Posterity make of their tombstone a shrine. 

Plant not o'er their resting place ivy or willow ! — 
Their deeds are immortal, tho' names be unknown ; 

The soil they have freed is their winding sheet, pillow, — ■ 
Their sepulchre, monument, glory and throne ! 



17 



'TIS DONE! 

'Tis done ! The sword that flashed in air 
At Freedom's bidding, shattered lies : 
The wing that brushed so late the skies 

Is palsied all, and in despair 
The eagle falls and darkly dies. 

'Tis done ! The stubborn head is bent. 
And paralyzed the rebel heart : 
And might hath been the magic art 

That hath accomplished the event 
And winged the subtly poisoned dart. 



'Tis done ! The fratricidal strife 

Hath given to Cuba naught of gain,- 
She bends submissive knee to Spain 

This battle to the very knife 
Is but a battle fought in vain. 



Tis Done ! 



'Tis done ! The Spaniard stands at length, 
The victor's laurel on his brow : 
The heart whicli scorned so long to bow 

Is bowed at length by tyrant strength, 
Is bowed, — and all is over now. 

'Tis done ! The spirit that inspired 
My earlier visions all is fled : 
The dreams on which my fancy fed 

Dead as the beacon Freedom fired, 
Aye, dead — and with your hero-dead ! 




19 



TAKE HEART! 

Take heart ! They never vainly wait 
Who wait to see redress of wrong : 
An age, though seemingly so long, 

Is nought in time ; and soon or late 
Your land shall take her place among 

The nations of the earth : for Right 
And Honor yet shall set her free : 
Her air, though tainted now, shall be 

As pure as yonder holy light 

That smiles upon your southern sea ! 

Take heart ! A happier day awaits 
Your weary, battling, bleeding isle, — 
A happier day, when Peace shall smile 

On all that is within your gates. 
And war shall rest himself a while. 

For noble deeds must bear this fruit : 
And holy Freedom 5?et shall stand 
Within each despot-ridden land, 

The chain of slavery 'neath her foot — 
The star of Promise in her hand ! 

20 




AVE ATQUE VALE! 



When war is over, and thy glorious brow 
Gleams with the star of Peace and Victory ; 

When all thy sons at Freedom's shrine shall bow 
When all thy daughters, fairest as they be. 
Shall learn to lisp the name of Liberty 

And offer incense at her altar ; then, 

Then in thy pride of place remember me — 

The nameless bard who sung thy praises when 

None other dared to sing among the sons of men 



f^^^^i^. 



There Russia lightless land of pain, 
Rude region of forbidden thought, 

Where Freedom, walking, clanks a chain, 
Or pines in prison till she rot : — 

Where every moment breaks a heart. 
Where hope can hardly draw a breath. 

Where rumbles still the hangman's cart. 
And all the air is thick with death : — 

Yea, Russia — sick and sad of soul. 
And, like the camel, forced to kneel. 

Feels on her back the burden roll, 
And lifts again the old appeal ; 

And vainly lifts it : while the throng 
Of maid, and woman, man and child. 

Goes outward — singing sadder song 
Than Babel's — to Siberia's wild. 



22 



Russia. 



But even for thee there is a hope, — 
That better Ruler shall be thine, 

Whose sway shall show that cell, and rope. 
Are not the seals of " Right Divine." 

This failing thee — a Power shall wake 
As stern as steel, as strong as stone ; 

A Power that never fails to shake 

A too-dark Despot from his throne : — 

Rebellion's self, with vengeful hand, 
Disdaining civic wreath and robe, 

Shall take the sword, and blazing brand. 
And sweep the Gorgon from the globe. 




23 



ALEXIS ROMANOFF:- 

There are thunders of cheers on the street, 
They are smiting and striking the air : 

Is it right ? Is it well ? Is it meet ? 
What deed hath he done who is there, 

That the people should lie at his feet ? 

What deed hath he done that we know ? 

What of good unto others or us ? 
And what is the debt that ye owe 

Him, to fawn on and flatter him thus ? — 
That ye cringe to, and bow to him so ? 

Hath he shown a contempt of the wrong ? 

Hath he shown a desire of the right ? 
Hath he broken the strength of the strong. 

Or supported the weak with his might, 
That to meet him and greet him ye throng ? 

Ye freemen, whose ancestors crost 

Over anarchy's perilous sea ! 
How much hath your liberties cost 

That ye sell them so cheaply ? that ye 
Would so lightly behold them all lost ? 

'On the reception of the Grand Duke in Boston. 

24 



Alexis Romanoff. 



Why stoop ye, if more than the name 
Of freemen remains to you now ? — 

Why stoop ye so swiftly to shame ? 
Why darken the. spark on your brow 

That should leap into luminous flame ? 

Being freeest of those who are free, 
Being bravest of those who are brave, 

Why bend you so ready a knee ? 
Is Freedom the chattel and slave 

Of the autocrat over the sea ? 

Oh, it is but a courtesy shown 
To a king, or the son of a king ! 

How courteous at length ye have grown ! 
But courtesy — what ! — must it bring 

Ye to fall at the foot of a throne ? 

Ye had fathers both courteous and brave 
Who could die, but consent not to shame 

Ye had fathers — they sleep in the grave. 
The children of freedom and fame : — 

Know ye not what they thought of a slave ?- 



25 



Alexis Romanoff. 



Of a slave who had chosen to lie 

In the dust when he well might be free ? — 
Of a slave who, when princes went by, 

Would fall with a pliable knee ? 
Seek their graves — and their dust will reply ! 

Is it dead, then — this spirit that spoke 
In the battle, the storm, and the strife ? 

Is it dead ? Is its sceptre now broke ? 
Is it dead — that it leaps not to life 

On the soil where to life it first woke ? 

Is it dead ? Do the lip and the brow 
Only worship a name at a shrine 

Polluted and desecrate now — 
No longer revered as divine — 

Where the noblest of ages did bow ? 

Oh, be men ! I beseech you, be men ! 

Upon you are the eyes of the earth : 
Yonder History holdeth her pen 

To rate you at what you are worth, — 
Disgrace not fair Freedom again ! 



26 



THE '^ DIVINE right:' 

When nations from their slavery wake, 
And every band that bound them break, 

Then comes the stern decree of kings — 
Subdue them, or destroy ! 

High through the quivering air it rings, 

While Death and Famine wave their wings. 
And glut their savage joy. 

The Czar, with his Damascene brand. 

Pricks the bear of the north till uncurled : 

O'er the cities and towns of a perishing land 
His ominous flag is unfurled ; 

While the glove that late sat on the Autocrat's hand 
Is flung in the face of the world ! 



27 



The " Divine Right!' 



Blow, winds of heaven ! in all the broad land : 
Blow, winds of God ! in all the broad sea : 

Blow, till the sceptre is wrung from the hand 
Of the tyrant, and earth is free. 
The proud, firm song of equality ! 

Breathe it into each mortal ear, — 
Force it into each human soul, — 

That man was born for a holier sphere 
Than a despot's base control ! 

Be thou an emperor, sultan, or czar, 

Priest or patriarch, queen or king. 
Thou hast no right to the judgment car — 

Man is the noblest created thing ! — 
From the same origin — all, the same pair : 
Blow on the wandering winds afar — 

Scatter it here, and scatter it there : — 
Man is man's peer, only man is his peer. 

And each has a right each is bound to revere, 

The right to be free — to be true : 

The right to be true — to be free : 
So whatever, my lord, is a right for you, 

The same is a right for me ! 

28 



The " Divine Right.'' 



What ! not a right to break 

What you have a right to bind ? 
What ! not a right to take 

Redress for the wrongs of mankind ? 
What ! not a right to shake 

With the catapult of the mind 
The ramparts which you have built 

To shelter the throne you hold ? — 
To pass through the breach to your citadel — Guilt, 

And to trample your image of gold ? 
Oh, you would sheathe your sword to the hilt 

In the heart that would be so bold ! 

So, breezes ! whisper the Czar 

Who tramples a beggarly land, 
That perhaps, 'neath the sheen of the star 

That lights his marauding band 
On their pathway of ruin and war, 

The David even now may stand 
Waiting and watching — nor distant far — 

With the sling in his boyish hand. 
Till a David's God shall arise in wrath 

And smite to the dust this giant of Gath. 



29 



COLUMBIA— RUSSIA !- 

Columbia — Russia ! God above ! 

Who dares to link the fame 
Acquired by Freedom, Union, Love, 

With Alexander's name ? 

Who dares to say Columbia's hand 
Would aid the Russian smite the land 

From which our fathers came ? — 
If such should be, all time would brand 
With contumely her banner, and 

Her virgin brow with shame ! 

Alliance with the northern Tsar ? — 
To bid the blood of Nations flow, 

To set the earth aflame with war, — 

To spread it near, to fling it far, — 
To make the world a waste of woe 

To drag or fall before his car ? 

No ! — One for many answers — No ! 



'On hearing of a proposed alliance between Russia and the United States. 

30 



Columbia — Russia ! 



For Freedom's cause, for Freedom's cause 
The freeman's banner only flies : 

For that alone his sword he draws, 
For that alone he dies. 

Go, autocrat ! The hireling slave 

May dig himself a hireling's grave : — 

'Twould ill become the free and brave ! 




31 



WHAT MEANS THIS PAGEANTRY P-'- 

What means this pageantry and glare ? — 
The stately tread of horses feet ? 

The numerous gazers on the street, — 
This solemn roll of muffled drums, — 

These banners flaunting in the air, — 

These weeds the myriad mourners wear, — 
This voice of melancholy prayer ? 

Pronounce ! — Is it some hero comes ? 

Some soldier who, in battle-plain. 
As he his country's banner bore. 

Where fiercest flew the leaden rain 
Fell — fell to rise again no more : 

Died, pride still vanquishing his pain, 
Died for his land, — nor died in vain ? 



»On memorial services to Czar Alexander in Boston. 

32 



What means this Pageantry ? 



No ? Then some sage to whom 'twas given 
The rugged steeps of Fame to chmb ; 

And high among the stars of heaven 
To write, with daring hand subhme, 
His deeds for all recurring time : — 

A man of pure and humble birth 
Born heir to deeds of high emprize, 

Who to the chariot wheels of earth 

Chained some new spirit of the skies, — 

Like that triumphant Franklin gave 

To be man's mighty, humble slave ? 

Some meteoric son of song 

Who climbed Parnassus' lofty height. 
And from the summit poured along 

A strain of majesty and might ? 
Who from the dewy wings of Night 

Shook out the latent stars of fire 
And, wrapped within this cloud of light. 

Swept with trained hand the sounding lyre 
Till nations all did prostrate fall 

And hail him prophet, bard, and sire ? 



33 



What means this Pageantry ? 



No, none of these. — The day is past 

When son of song or sage could claim 
More than all men may have at last, — 

A grave — and a forgotten name ! 
For czars and emperors and kings, — 

For those who most their fellows wrong. 
The temple's sacred organ rings. 
The poet from his closet brings 

The tribute of a servile song ! 




34 



OUR POETS. 

These men to loose or burst the galhng chains 
Of those who mourn in darkness over sea ! 

These men — who feel a fever in their veins 
At every moon change — these to set men free ! 

These — these ! — who sing in rapture of the Czar 
And howl their hallelujahs in his ears 

To bruise the head of that grim monster — war, 
To close the eye of bitterness and tears ! 

These men of servile souls and servile songs 
To name the day when despotism shall cease ! 

These men, forsooth, to right the people's wrongs 
And give the world her harvest-time of Peace ! 

What can he know of joys or miseries — 

Yon vain, luxurious fool, who lolls at ease 
And sips the foam alone upon the cup ? 

Whoe'er would know or one or all of these 

Must take the ponderous chalice, hold it up — 
And drink life's vintage to its very lees ! 



35 



THE CZAR. 

They say I hate the Czar. I hate , 

All wrong in any high or low ; 
In men of small or large estate, 

In any friend or any foe : 

And something of the Czar I hate, 

And, holding him as only clay. 
Unlike a craven coward, straight 

Back to his royal self I say : — 

Thy reign was bitter, barren, blind, and bad : 
Thy life was black, and blackened other ones 

That else had known no sorrow, or had had 

Some of God's light within them and His Son's, 

Within them and about : but o'er thy day 

The curtain closes, and they see thee — clay ! 

This to his teeth. And then to those 

Paid by him — nothing : they are naught. 
Truth goes wherever manhood goes, 

And fears not either shell or shot : 
And God hath put the liar's lot 

Beyond the chance of day or date, — 
And if the Czar can, or cannot. 

Why, He who made them all can wait ! 
36 



TO THE CZAR. 

If ever fell the wrath of God 
Upon a bitter fool, and blind, 

Who stained with blood a ready rod 
And sought and slew his fellow-kind, 
And banished mercy from his mind, 

And with a level face severe, — ■ 
In which no trace did any find 

Of any hope for any year, — 

Walked on and over all that came 
Betwixt him and his tyrant will, 

And knew not any shade of shame, 
And only heard and heeded still 
That fierce old Roman cry of " kill ! ' 

Then, Autocrat, and all unjust! 
'Twill light on thee and burn, until 

That heart of thine shall beat to dust. 



37 



To the Czar. 



Yea, Czar of every Russia crowned ! 

The meanest hind that follows plough, 
Or whistles to his yello\y hound, 

Is more a monarch than art thou ! 

He wears a hope upon his brow, 
And he dare lift his eyes above :— 

But, sightless despot, answer now — 
Where moves the thing that thou dost love ? 

Or, where is that of man or beast 

That gives thee kindl}^ thought or care ? 

From North to South, from West to East, 
Say, rises for thee anywhere 
From honest heart an honest pra3^er ? 

No ! Though your messenger should run 
And scan the spaces of the air 

He would not light on any one. 



38 



To the Czar. 



O fool ! and greater— filling throne ! — 

Why is a price within thine hand 
For wisdom ? still thy people groan, 

And still they groan at thy command. 

Can'st thou not learn nor understand 
That Freedom will not suffer thrall ? 

That he who fain would rule a land 
Must rule by love — or not at all ? 

No ? Then from out the pregnant womb 
Of time-to-be shall come a day 

As dire to thee as that of Doom, 

And it shall draw a sword and slay : 
And it shall speak to thee and say, — 

As darkly onward thou dost grope, — 
See written o'er thine every way — 

" Who enters here, abandon hope ! " 



39 



THE CZAR. 

What is there in thy greatness that is great, — 
Thoji, loveless as that other, loved by none ? 

Or, where moves man that envies thee thy fate, — 
All-evil worker, and all evil one ? 

Still to be hated with a whole heart's hate. 

Known and remembered but for ill deeds done, 

This is forever. Tyrant ! thine estate 
Beneath the crimson circle of the sun ! 

Watch well, O world ! Right is not alwaj^s wrong: 
The ghosts of his own works about him throng. 

Watch well — nor envy him his hour of calm. 

Ere they arise and put forth strength, and strip 
The blood-stained purple from the royal sham, 
And curse the white-lipped leper to his lip ! 

Feb. i6, 1884. 



40 




Pf^n 



ee. 



Next she, whose eddying humor went 

Through both the scales of change and chance, 

At length, for once at least, content, 
Demands a line — the land of France. 

A host of Sovereigns have been hers 

Since first commenced our humbler rule, 

And some were bad, and some were worse, 
One was a tyrant, one a fool. 

And one, or two, I need not name, — 
I know 3^ou have them in your mind, — 

For they have found their proper fame, — 
Were tyrant both and fool combined. 



41 



France. 



And she has wearied of them each, 
And parted with them, one by one, 

And told them in divinest speech 

And firmest, that their day was done. 

And beckoning Freedom to her side, — 
A calm-pulsed Freedom,— not again 

That froward, fiendish fool who dyed 
Of old, with crimson hue, the Seine : — 

And walking with her up the slope 

Of peaceful, civic life at last, 
She sees the perfect higher hope, 

And turns her back upon the Past, 

And none would wish thee worse than this : 
That still thy glory may advance ; 

And that no good that is may miss 
Thy shore, O lovely land of France ! 



42 



THY SKY IS DIM. 

Thy sky is dim but yet I see, 

Methinks, anear thy shore 
The star that shines above the free 

Arise to set no more : 
And from that star a hght doth spring — 
A hght of heaven's own wakening. 

But swear it, Frenchmen, by the days 

Of anguish ye have known, 
That never more shall despot raise 

In France the despot's throne ! 
Your hands are laid to Freedom's plough. 
Oh, look not back, nor falter now ! 



The memory of what hath been — 
Be that your warning light 

To keep the civil scabbard clean, 
The civil sabre bright : 

And bear in mind, no mutual good 

Can come from fostering mutual feud ! 

43 



Thy Sky is Dim. 



Ye need not fear the invader's arm, — 
His strength is but a boast : 

But fear what most can work you harm, 
Ay, fear yourselves the most ! 

The flesh wound may, 'tis true, annoy : 

The inward canker will destroy. 

Let faction, then, this moment cease, 

Or but exist to be 
Exerted in the cause of peace 

And heaven-born liberty. 
Of all that makes a nation's name 
Beam brighter on the scroll of Fame ! 

So, Frenchmen, shall the glories old 

That to your land belong. 
With glories to be hers, be told 

In golden speech and song : 
So shall the children on her breast 
And all her lovers call her blest. 



44 



THE FUTURE? 

Oh, what shall the future unravel, 

The future for which thou hast bled, 
For which thou hast suffered in travail, — 

Of lustre or cloud for thy head ? 
Wilt thou love Peace as in the beginning ? 
As thou did'st, ere the day of thy sinning ? 

As thou did'st, ere the perilous strife, 
That a tyrant thought well worth his winning. 

Left thee lonely with only thy life ? 

Oh, shall it be sadness or laughter — 

Oh, shall it be gladness or tears 
Shall come to thee. Beautiful, after 

The lapse of the fluctuant years ? — 
After the flight of the flying — 
After the death of the dying — 

The swift-flying, swift-dying days ? 
Say, shall it be singing or sighing ? 

Say, shall it be censure, or praise 



45 



The Future ? 



Of the day of thy deadhest error — 

The day of the blood and the brand ; 
Of the day of thy darkness and terror 

Rude shocking and shaking the land ? 
Oh, what shall the writers, the sages. 
The learned compilers of pages 

Say unto thee ? What shall it be ? 
From out the deep mouth of the ages 

Oh, what shall there come unto thee ? 

Is it broken, thy faith, or but shaken ? 

Is it dead, or only asleep ? 
Shall it waken again, shall it waken 

A light on a desolate deep ? — 
A light like the burst of the morning, 
To warn thee with terrible warning 

Away from the breakers that roar. 
With a voice that should silence thy scorning. 

On the iron-bound tempest-scarred shore ? 



46 



The Futm^e ? 



Shall the black-foaming chalice of sorrow 

Be held to thy star-litten lips ? 
Shall the sun that should light thee to-morrow 

Be blind with a total eclipse ? 
Shall it be of thine own bitter potion 
To see it sink down in the ocean 

All spiritless, cheerless, and cold,— 
Deprived of the luminous motion 

That gladdened its being of old ? 

Shall the peoples in jubilant chorus 

Fling anthems of praise in thine ears, 
Or shall clamors and curses sonorous 

Upward float from the throat of the years ? 
Shall thy portion be banning or blessing. 
Shall thy portion be scorn or caressing, 

If any in Liberty's fight 
Should falter in future, expressing 

That thou art the cause of their flight ? 



47 



The Future ? 



Then thunders of curses assaihng 

Shall fall on thy desolate head ; 
While earth to her centre is wailing 

The innocent blood thou hast shed : 
The faithful who followed shall shun thee, 
The darkness of hell be upon thee — 

Stern retribute justice but meet ; — 
And the laurels that chivalry won thee 

Fall faded and dead at thy feet. 

But, if they who are writing thy story 

Bid those who seek freedom take heed 
That the gore on thy hands is not glory, 

Nor glory each desperate deed : 
Should Freedom uprising, forgetting 
The sharp fratricidal blood-letting, 

To those who are seeking her tell 
That this mighty upheaving, upsetting 

Was all for the best, it is well. 



48 



The Ftiht7^e ? 



Then out of the sea of thy slaughters 

The sun of pure wisdom shall rise ; 
Earth's sons, and her beautiful daughters, 

Shall echo thy praise to the skies. 
And thank thee, O France, in their gladness, 
For showing the madness of madness 

In characters written in flame, 
And place with the cypress of sadness 

Upon thee the laurel of Fame ! 




49 



IN AFTER DAYS. 

I will accomplish that and this, 

And make myself a thorn to Things- 
Lords, councillors and tyrant kings — 

Who sit upon their thrones and kiss 

The rod of Fortune ; and are crowned 
The sovereign masters of the earth 
To scatter blight and death and dearth 

Wherever mortal man is found. 

I will do this and that, and break 
The backbone of their large conceit. 
And loose the sandals from tlieir feet. 

And show 'tis holy ground they shake. 

So sang I in my earlier days, 

Ere I had learned to look abroad 
And see that more than monarchs trod 

Upon the form I fain would raise. 



50 



In After Days. 



Ere I, in looking toward the land 

That broke a triple diadem, 

That grasped at Freedom's garment hem, 
Had seen her, sword and torch in hand, 

A freedom-fool : ere I had grown 

To know that Love is freedom's strength — 
France taught the world that truth at length !- 

And Peace her chief foundation stone. 

Since then, I temper so my song 
That it may never speak for blood ; 
May never say that ill is good ; 

Or say that right may spring from wrong : 

Yet am what I have ever been — 

A friend of Freedom, staunch and true, 
Who hate a tyrant, be he — you — 

A people, — sultan, czar, or queen ! 



51 



In After Days. 



And then the Freedom-haters came 
And questioned of my former song, 
If now I held it right, or wrong : 

And still my answer was the same : — 

The good still moveth towards the good : 
The ill still moveth towards the ill : 
But who affirmeth that we will 

Not form a nobler brotherhood 

When rabid fanatics, and those 

Who howl their " vives'' to Freedom's name 

And yet betray her unto shame, 
Are dead and coffined with her foes. 




52 



(^ol^rr^bi^. 



And last, Columbia, at her feet 
The ruins of three giant wars. 

Comes, robed in laurel, all complete. 
Her forehead garlanded with stars ! 



53 



COL UMBIA . 

The first, and most sublime 

Of all the lands 
That ask reward of Time, 

Columbia stands. 

For hope divinely fair 

Look not to Rome 
And Athens ! — Look not there; 

But here — at home. 

For blood that she hath spilt. 
Let after da3's disclose 

Where blame shall be : the guilt 
Be on her foes ! 



54 



OUR HERO DEAD.- 

Come, sons of Massachusetts ! come 
With stately step, with beat of drum, 

In proud and long array : 
Nor mourn ye now the brave, nor weep 
O'er those who sleep the soldier's sleep, — 

Who are not here to-day. 
Aye, come ye here for whom they bled — 
The turf lie lightly on their head ! — 

And come with high and reverent tread. 
The tribute which ye owe the dead, 

Our hero-dead, to pay. 

Our hero-dead ! When rude alarms 
Awoke a slumbering land to arms ; 

When Freedom's hope a moment failed ; 
When Freedom's star a moment paled ; 
When traitors sought to flee or fled ; 
When red Rebellion's hand assailed 

The truths for which their fathers bled ; 
Who seized the flag they loved, and nailed 
It to the mast ? Our hero-dead ! 

'On the unveiling oi the monument on Boston common to the Soldiers who fell 
in the war of the Rebellion. 

55 



Our Hero Dead. 



They came from cottage and from hall 
As to some lordly festival, 

And yet with sterner look, perchance, 

For deep resolve was in each glance, 
To answer Union's trumpet-call. 
On every hill, in every vale 

The sabre clashed, the anvil rang ; 
And on these came to breast the gale 

Of war, and prove from whom they sprang : — 
From every vale, from every hill 
These heroes came, and with a will, — 

For still the Syren Freedom sang. 

What though on many a crumbling stone 

Is stamped that mournful word — " Unknown " ? 

What though some sleep in alien soil, — 
For battle claimed her share of spoil, — 

We reap the harvest of their toil : 
The wildest storms of war they braved. 
The Union that they loved they saved. 



56 



Our Hero Dead. 



In such a cause who fears to die, 
When he who fights for Freedom fights 
For man, and those diviner rights 

Indulged him from on high ? 

Name not his name ! It still must be 
A thing of scorn and infamy. 
Name not his name, but let him fly 

Far from the glorious strife. 
And tell his fettered children why 

He hoards his little life ! 
Name not his name ! Unknown to fame, 

It shall not dwell upon the breeze : 
But, blasted by the breath of shame, 

Shall fall beneath the centuries. 

Name not his name ! No glowing verse 
Shall tell his deeds of glory o'er; 

But freeman's scorn and bondsman's curse 
Shall follow him forevermore. 

These feared not death: they sought him, and 

They met him boldly — sword in hand. 



SI 



Our Hero Dead. 



But, hold ! The valor of your sires 
No ornate song from me requires : 

Their country called — they went, they won 
They wrote their names on glory's page ; 
And left their sons, for heritage, 

The soil they tread to-day upon ! 

But come ye here, for whom they bled, — 
Bloom brightly flowers above their head ! — 

Come from your cottages and halls ! 

A son, or sire, or brother calls ; 
And through their brother veterans' souls 
To-day the one proud feeling rolls — 

Their country called — they went ! 

So then, with one consent. 
In Freedom's and in Honor's name. 
In that of filial love and fame. 

Unveil their monument ! 

Boston, June, 1877. 



58 



BUNKER HILL. 

The land was all in love to-day, 

Unknowing North, South, East, or West 
To-night 'tis locked in peace and rest. 

And all the continent is gay. 
And all the continent is blest. 

Sing proudly. Stars of heaven, to-night ! 
Shine brightly, spheres, that circle round, 
And flood the consecrated ground 

With consecrated streams of light 
And consecrated waves of sound. 

And, Northern maidens, floating near ! — 
Oh, let your voices echo forth 
The golden gladness of the North 

Into your Southern sisters ear — 
And make all melody and mirth ! 

And, soldiers of the Northern plumes, 

Thrice welcome bid each Southern band ! 
One greeting from a brother's hand 
Is worth ten thousand hero-tombs 
To any man in any land ! 
Bunker Hill, June 17, 1875. 

59 



Ei'ii^. 



Here Ireland, stricken, begs for balms, 
For broken heart and bruised flesh ; 

Still shows the nail-prints in her palms 
And cries, being crucified afresh. 

And, 'twixt the fools who hate her most, 
And those who hurt her most — her own, 

She has but little left to boast 

Save strength to struggle on alone. 

And courage still to persevere 

In what she holds her right divine. 

And faith to feel that some New Year 
Shall see her star of promise shine : 

And so it shall ! The season hastes 

O Erin, when the last of woes 
Shall come to thee, and all thy wastes 
Shall bloom and blossom as the rose ! 
January ist, 1884. 

60 



Since Sappho, — She above 

All poetesses 
Who ever sang of love 

Or love's caresses : 

Since Sappho, — She who leapt, 
Compelled by love, not duty, 

Into the wave that wept 
For joy to fold her beauty : 

Since Sappho — I am next ; 

And, being as human, 
I preach, and take for text 

The love of woman. 



6i 



THOU GOEST THY WAY. 

Thou goest thy way, and I 

Another path pursue — 
Beneath a drearier sky : — 
'Tis well ! and yet, I know not why, 

I weep to say adieu. 

Yet shalt thou go thy way ; 

For, though I love thee well 
And fain would have thee stay, 
I can in nothing say thee nay ! — 

In nothing thou canst tell. 

So little, loved one, go ! 
A little longer here, — 
A day or two below, — 
And I shall meet thee, where they know 
No more the parting tear: 

Where skies are ever fair ; 

Where hearts are ever true ; 
Where pain alone is rare; 
Where Fate cannot divorce us, where 

We shall not say — adieu ! 

62 




LOVE'S DECEASE. 

Love died when we expected least 
That he would die ; but, being dead, 

Or tranced for burial, call the priest 
To read the rite that should be read 
Above his head ! 

Now scatter flowers upon his breast — 
The rarest, fairest flowers that grow. 

And take the heart that cannot rest 
Divorced from his, and let it go 

Still with him, — so! 

And dig a grave in some dark dell. 
Remote, and lone, and hidden deep, 

That no one passing by may tell 

Another — "Thefe lies Love asleep! " 
Then none will weep. 



63 



BENEATH THE ROSES. 

Full oft my thought, of late, Idelle, 

When bright the night-star burneth, 
Unto the spot we loved so well 

In happier moments turneth : — 
And to the time when there we sat 

By clambering roses shaded, 
When still we talked of this, or that, 

U ntil the evening faded : 

When still our laughter was not loud ; 

When sadness was not sorrow ; 
When ail our sky had not a cloud, 

Our day had not a morrow : 
When love had never time for tears. 

Nay, knew not what their flow meant; 
But ever drew the bliss of years 

From each succeeding moment. 



64 



Beneath the Roses, 



Ay, oft remembrance of those days 

O'er sense and feeling flashes: 
And though our vows have gone their ways, 

Though love be dust and ashes : 
And though we woke from peace to pain — 

'Tis ever so, or mostly ! — 
I still would live life o'er again, 

Though it were twice as costly. 

Could I but have thee by my side' 

When night about me closes. 
And clasp thee in my arms, my bride. 

For aye beneath the roses ! 




65 



FORGIVE THEE; 

Forgive thee ? Though the years be long 
Since last I touched thy brow, 

Men shall not say I wrought thee wrong 
Or broke my early vow 

Won from me by one simple song, — 
I must forgive thee now. 

I do forgive thee, and I bless 

Thee as a dear regret, — 
A golden, olden happiness 

That should be with me yet. 
Forgive thee ! I forgive thee, yes : 

Ask not that I forget ! 



66 



REMEMBER THEE! 

Remember thee ! When I forget 

Myself, and all that has been mine, — 

The moments more than precious yet, 
The nights you wont to call divine, — 

When all that is hath ceased to be, 

I then will cease to think of thee. 

Still think of thee ! When summer's sun 
Is wrapped in deep autumnal haze; 

When every sphere its course hath run. 
And numbered its allotted days ; 

When sun and stars have ceased to be, 

I then will cease to think of thee. 

Remember thee ! When love is nought ; 

When truth is but an empty name : 
When sorrow is the child of Thought, 

And sorrow's only offspring — shame: 
When Love, Truth, Thought have ceased to be, 
I then will cease — to think of thee ! 

67 




THE DEFEAT OF LOVE. 

" I go", said Love to his friends one day, 

"To a balmy island known to me, 
To a happy island leagues away 

Set star-fair far in a Southern sea. 

For there the mate that affection means 

To give my heart has waited long : 
She calls — I go to those sweeter scenes 

Of life and love and summer and song. 

Those sweeter scenes where the wild grape grows 
To thrill the throat of the land with wine : 

Where all is sweet as is the rose 

To the bee that hangs to its heart divine !" 



He built a boat of deep-sea-shell, 
Or meet for calm, or common gale; 

He bade us all a kind farewell, 

Then took the tiller and spread the sail. 

68 



The Defeat of Love. 



We watched him off — the wind blew free, 
Like electric spark he sped from the shore; 

He crossed the bar; he won the sea ; 

Then night came down and closed him o'er. 

=|: * * * * * 

Well, days and weeks and months grew old, 
A year grew perfect and complete. 

Ere to our ears the tidings rolled 
Of Love and Love's too dark defeat. 

The maiden wearied of his delay, — 

For adverse grew both wind and tide, — 

And said, " I will meet him on the way 

And guide him here !" She smiled in pride ; 

For she was royal, and had ships 

And men to mark her least command ; 

And ere the word had left her lips, 

Her barge was ready to leave the land. 



69 



The Defeat of Love. 



And she sailed Northward far and fast, 
And he sailed Southward steady and true : 

They came together at length, hut passed 
Each other one night, and neither knew. 

So he sailed Southward o'er the main. 
And she sailed towards the Pole-star fair. 

Till storms arose and wrecked them twain. 
And no one knows the when or where ! 

Ah, me! How often, or first or last. 
The lover and loved — the fitting two — 

Have met on Life's large sea, and passed 
Each other forever, while neither knew ! 




70 



TO ADELLE. 

Though the hopes I have left be not many, 
I have one which is second to none, 

A hope that is dearer than any, 

And it is — tho' this all may be ill or be well — 

That perhaps, in the fairer Hereafter, Adelle, 
You and I will be one. 

The streams which so tenderly blended 

To their ocean divided may run ; 
But perhaps, when their course is all ended, 

Perhaps — tho' this all ma}^ be ill or be well — 
Perhaps, in the vaster Hereafter, Adelle, 

The two may be one. 

The days of affection have faded, 

The nights of our visions are gone; 
And we — we shall pass e'en as they did ; 

But perhaps — tho' this all may be ill or be well- 
Perhaps, in the mighty Hereafter, Adelle, 

You and I shall be one ! 



71 



EPIMETHEUS. 

The months fly by ! November 

Is present with us now ; 
And why should I remember 

That early April vow? 
Why longer should I long for, 

With tears and vain regret, 
Or why still sigh in song for 

The days tlioii dost forget? 

The season wanes; the flowers 

I placed upon thy head 
Are withered with the hours, 

Are with them, ever dead. 
And how should tender blossom 

Upon thee fresh remain, 
When winter in thy bosom 

Doth hold eternal reign ? 



72 



Epimetheus. 



Or, now the year is dying, 

Why not, ere it be done, 
Let all old love go flying 

After the old year's sun ? 
Why not give laugh for laughter, 

Shake hands and part with thought ; 
And love being asked for, after, 

Make answer — Love was not ? 

1 will ! no more I sorrow 

For that bright, brief, dear dream, 
I launch my boat to-morrow 

Anew upon life's stream : 
And let the breeze blow kindly. 

And let the tide run true. 
Or let them both work blindly 

Their work, as weavers do : 



73 



Epimetheus. 



And let my bark move quickly, 

Or be it slowly sped ; 
And let the stars gleam thickly, 

Or be they hid o'erhead — 
I shall no more abandon 

My chart, but onward move, 
No more to strike or strand on 

The rock of April love. 

No, No ! My soul's November 

Is here and with me now, 
And I must not remember 

Again that sweet Spring-vow 
I must no longer long for, 

With tears and vain regret, 
Nor sigh again in song for 

The daj's thou dost forget. 



74 



THOU HAST DONE IT— NOT I. 

Thou hast done it, not I, yet I will not endeavor 
To dig the dear dead from the depths of the past ; 

Let it slumber oblivion's slumber forever, — 

The book has been sealed — thou hast writ in it last ! 

Let it be as it is ! What is spoken is spoken — 
Entreaties are fruitless, apologies vain ; 

For a thread in the web of Affection once broken, 
No art upon earth can unite it again. 



75 



/ THOUGHT THAT TIME. 

I thought that Time would teach me to forget ; 

Yet years have passed since last I left thy side, 
And thou art more than well remembered yet — 

My beautiful one — my bride ! 

I probe my thought and find the mystery lies 
In deeming love a merely temporal thing : 

Whilst like a beam of light it floats and flies 
Upon a weariless wing. 



76 



JUNE. 

crimson-hearted, flower- producing June — 

Dear month of love, and laughter, and light song ! 

Wherein our mother brings her choral throng 
To hymn the hymns that sweetest are in tune: 

Wherein all gaily goes save soul of wrong 
That takes to bed quite blinded by the light 
Of that sweet, sober, gentle queen of night 

That rules the tides of earth and men — the moon; 
I love you ! for it was beneath your skies 
I first looked love into her starry eyes : 

1 love you ! for beneath your dome of blue 

I heard her answer — " And I love you too ! " 
I hate you ! — mid your flowers it was my lot 
To hear those same lips say — " I love you not ! " 



77 



RELICS. 

Put them aside — I hate the sight of them ! — 
That golden wonder from her golden hair — 
That faded lily which she once did wear 

Upon her bosom — and that cold hard gem 
Which glittered on her taper finger fair. 

They are of her, and, being so, they must 

Be like to her, and she is all a lie 

That seems a truth when truth is not a-nigh,— 
A thing whose love is light as balance dust. 

I loved her once, I love — nay, put them by ! 

Conceal them like the dead from sight away ! 
I must forget her and she was so dear 
In former times ! I could not bear them near : 

Let them be sealed forever from the day — 
Be wrapt in darkness, shrouded — buried here 

Where never more my eye may rest on them ! 
This golden wonder from her golden hair — 
This faded lily that she once did wear 

Upon her bosom — and this joyless gem 
That ghttered on her taper finger fair. 

78 




A MORIS FINIS. 

And now I go with the departing sun : 
My day is dead and all my work is done. 

No more for me the pleasant moon shall rise 
To show the splendor in my dear one's eyes ; 

No more the stars shall see us meet ; we part 
Without a hope, or hope of hope, at heart ; 

For Love lies dead, and at his altar, lo. 

Stands in his room, self-crowned and crested, — Woe! 



79 



FORGETTING. 

Forgetting! Were forgetting 

Done easily as said, 
I should not be regretting 

The days forever dead. 

Forgetting ! Were it only 

Exertion of the will, 
I should not be so lonely 

And sad so long, and still. 

But who, in arms that folded 
The star-eyed, radiant Past, — 

But who is he so moulded 
Can hold the present fast ; 

And in this rapturous present 
Enwound, give never thought 

To moments just as pleasant 

That were when these were not ? 



80 




FA RE WELL ! 

Farewell! — a little word and light, 
Yet pregnant with regret to me ; 
It seems a Saint Helena's height — 
A mockery — to souls whose flight 
Hath been unto — what could not be ! 



Farewell ! — I rest upon the word. 

It seems a solemn, saddening bell 
At midnight in the tempest heard, 

A death-bed sigh — a funeral knell 
That speaks of life and love interred, — 

It soundeth now — ah, sad ! — Farewell ! 



IN DREAMS. 

When disobedient Adam spurned 

An exile from his Eden came, 
No doubt he sadly, daily turned 

And cursed the circling sword of flame : 
And yet, perchance, when evening fell 

And stars came forth with pitying beams, 
He slept and dreamed that all was well, — 

And walked his garden in his dreams. 

So I, expelled from balmy bowers 

Through which 'twas once my joy to roam, 
Awaking, curse the envious hours 

That hold me from my former home ; 
And yet, sometimes, as night comes down, 

In dreams afar my spirit flies, — 
I reassume m}^ old renown. 

And lord again my Paradise ! 



82 



TO MISS lASIGI. 

Beloved ! though the plume of wealth 

Cleaves to thee, clings, — even as a flower 
Clings to. its stem, until by stealth 

Of ill-bred breeze or sudden shower 
Its hold and hope and heart and health 

Are broken in unhappy hour, — 
I would resign Earth's proudest throne 

To call thee, having right, "mine own! " 

Mine own ! — to keep and have and hold. 
Mine own — my beauty — mine to bless ; 

To love, till love itself grow old, 

And the dark scythe-fiend's ruthlessness 

Have put the gray above the gold ; 

Nay, even in death my love alone, — 

Still loved, still lovely, still "mine own!" 



83 



To Miss lasigi. 



Mine ! though Apollo's crimson car 

Wheels westward o'er the world, as well 

As mine when night's sad, setting star 
Resigns his post of sentinel ; 

Mine own in time of peace — in war 

The hope on which my eye may dwell ; — 

My sun in shade, my shade in shine. 

Forever and forever — mine ! 

Mine? Ah, alas! the barricade 

That Mammon rears between us twain 
May not be overleaped, dear maid, 

Though high hearts break with parting pain. 
The phantom passion must be laid ; 

The harper taught another strain ; 
The knee must seek another shrine. 

For thou art not — thou art not mine ! 



Boston, 1880. 




84 



BON VOYAGE! 

A pleasant journey o'er the rough 
Atlantic wave, with happy noons, 

Auspicious evenings, and enough 

Of cloudless nights and milk-white moons ! 

A pleasant journey through the climes 
Of lore and love and sun and snow ; 

May all your times be summer times. 
And joy go with you as you go ! 

And when familiar to your ken 

Are Goth, and Greek, and Turk, and Russ, 
And all the rest of them, why, then — 

A pleasant journey back to us ! 

A pleasant journey o'er the tide 

Of Time, where tempests oft prevail; 

May friends be with you and abide 
And trade-winds take you as you sail ! 

And, lastly, I would wish you, Sweet ! 

Beyond earth's utmost bounds and bars, — 
Along that undiscovered street, — 
A pleasant journey to the stars ! 
January 2, 1884. 

85 



THE BEACON HILL COQUETTE. 

" I am the truest marksman, I'm 
The surest shot beneath the sun! " 

Said Love one day to Father Time, 
Whom he had chanced to hit upon. 

" You are ? Then," said the Reaper hoary, 
" Pick out your surest, subtlest dart, 

And with its point prove me your story 
Upon that woman's heart ! " 

Love took the gauntlet up with glee, — 
For with the bow the boy was clever, — 

And saying, — " Now, Sir, we shall see 
If I have idly boasted ever ; 

You know I made Olympian Jove 
Come down to earth to carry on his 

Suit with Europa ; then I drove 
My mother Venus to Adonis : 



86 



The Beacon Hill Coquette. 



I set the chaste Moon, when the sun 
Was sleeping, all ablaze with passion, 

So that she wooed Endymion, 

And won him, in right royal fashion : 

I made Marc Antony let slip 

A world, power, glory, just to batter a 
Swift moment at the dainty lip 

Of that dusk beauty Cleopatra : 

I sent old Orpheus down to Hell 

To sing his spouse from o'er the river ; 

And if I do not do as well 

To-day, my friend, I break my quiver ! 

So saying, he took good aim and flung : 
The arrow shot the sunshine gaily, — 

It missed ; the target turned unstung 
And questioned — if he practised daily ? 



87 



The Beacon Hill Coquette. 



Love flung his slender bow away, 

And catching Time, who had not waited, 

Laid hold upon him, crying — " Pray, 
When was that wondrous one created ? 

I have been lounging late in climes 

Where maids are soulful, songful, sunny ; 

Where hearts are musical as rhymes 
Anacreon-lipt, and sweet as honey ; 

Is she of some new order plann'd 

While I have carelessl}' been straying ? 

Or is she of some loveless land 

Where never went a sunbeam playing? " 

" Poor Cupid ! " answered Father T — , 

" I will enlighten you ; but yet 
It is a sacred secret, — she 

Is but a Beacon-hill coquette! " 



I SAW YOUR BEAUTY. 

I saw your beauty ripe and rare, 
Your Attic face and sensuous form, 

But found them framed for seasons fair- 
Not winter days, or nights of storm, 

I might have loved, did I not know 
That breast, though all devoid of sin, 

Though pure without as polar snow. 
Was cold as polar snow within. 

I could have loved you, but a face 
Came evermore betwixt us twain 

To win me from your art and grace 
Back to my better self again. 

I would have loved you, could the bliss 
Her presence gave me be forgot ; 

But, as it was, remember this : 
I loved you not — I loved you not ! 



89 



MY SOUTHERN NIGHTS. 

Ah, me ! my Southern nights ! my nights beside 
The sighing, sobbing, soulful, sunny sea 

With my dear love ! — my love magnificent-eyed 
As she who trod on power for Antony, — 
As that great queen all queen and more to me. 

In that she bartered stroke for stroke with Fate, 
And dared to die — ere bend a plaintive knee ; 

Or as that other who did one time wait 

The whole night through beside the Trojan gate. 

Memorial moments — all too swiftly sped ! 

Memorial nights — departed all too soon ! 
When delicate fires were fainting overhead 

In the voluptuous presence of the moon ; 

And breezes, laden with the scent of June, 
Unto love's whisper answered with a sigh ; — 

Prophetic prelude of the saddest tune 
That ever broke a heart, or dimmed an eye ! — 
And Araby's perfumes on drowsy wing went by. 



90 




/ CANNOT KISS THIS STRANGER. 

I cannot kiss this stranger yet, 
Nor yet espouse it in the stead 
Of one— the lovely one and dead 

Whom I may nevermore forget : — 

Of one who gave me second birth, 
And reconciled me to my clay ; 
I cannot kiss it yet — to-day ! 

And keep it at its vaunted worth. 

'Twould seem like sacrilege to fold 
My heart about another form, 
While even a memory is warm 

Of that— which but so late grew cold. 



91 



THE DREAMS THAT HAVE FADED. 

I may love thee forever, but nevermore- — never 
Can love make us one as it once made us one ; 

Whate'er the Fates find us, the Past is behind us. 
And naught can undo now the thing that is done. 

Though Time treat us kindly, or buffet us blindly, 
Though stars shine above us or blessings no more, 

We cannot forget them, we still must regret them — 
The dreams that have faded — the days that are o'er ! 



92 



APART. 

Yes, love of mine, and fair as any fair — 
Song of my soul, and soul of all this song ! 

I will forgive thee, though thou makest bare 
And bleak my life : — yea, by thy glorious hair 

And violet eyes, I will forgive the wrong. 

I will forgive thee, even as I expect 
To be forgiven of all my own ill deeds 

By Him who holds all people His elect, — 
Who judges kindly, caring not for creeds. 

I do forgive ! Albeit it hurts the heart 

To say — It might have been ! — still o'er and o'er 
To ask, 3^et find no aid in any art. 
To know that we must 'walk life's ways apart — 

O lovelessness of love ! — for evermore. 



93 



APEROTOS. 

It may be true — it may be true ! 

But is it not a weary thing 
To wave alone a joyless wing ? 

To have no love to glad us through 
Our long and lonely journey, round 

The many spheres that we must greet, 
Ere yet, with hallowed hands and feet, 

We touch upon celestial ground. 

Ah, yes ! It may be best to be 

Without a taint of love or touch 
In all your blood ; but I am such 

That loveless life were death to me : 
And death — so it had love to fill 

The pauses in the music — were 
Not half so bad, not half so bare, 

Since, loving, — I am living still. 



94 



TO ISABEL. 

My sweet fastidious Isabel, 
Thy silence hath been read ! 

I shall not sigh to say farewell, — 
'Tis sometimes lightly said; 

Albeit it soundeth like a knell 
O'er days forever dead. 

Amid the beautiful and bright 
Somewhere upon this earth 

Affection may sometime alight 
On one of equal birth, 

With face more fair than thine to-night 
And heart of higher worth. 

And I may cleave to her, and she 
May cast her lot with mine : 

No shadow on our hearth shall be, — 
There may be none on thine : 

And I shall never weep for thee, 
Nor pale for thee, nor pine. 



95 



LURLINE. 

We know the thing you were, Lurline ! 
As cold as care ; but you were fair, 

And being worshipped as a Queen, 
Young Harold fell into your snare, 
Although we warned him to beware 

Your Arctic smile and marble mien ! 



We know the river, too, Lurline! 
Its wave was cold, but he was bold. 

And little paused to think, I ween. 
How bitter, black and fierce it rolled- 
So he should never more behold 

Your Arctic smile and marble mien ! 



THOU ART LIKE EARTH. 

Thou art like Earth who saw the sun, and said : 
Behold the faithless thing I deemed so true ! 

It lately warmed me, now its warmth is fled, — 
It scarcely viewed me till it passed from view ! 

To which the Sun replied: Here am I still 
Where thou hast left me ; here will I remain ; 

And here, forsooth, my stay shall be, until 
The law of Nature turns thee back again ! 

And when the law compelled her, and She came, 
She found him older, in all else — the same. 



97 




SONG. 

I know not if it be her eyes, 

Outshining all the stars that rise 

With their deep splendor calm and true, 
That makes me love her as I do: 

The only thing that I can tell 

Is that I love her — wondrous well ! 

I cannot name the separate charm 
Of ankle, eye, or lip, or arm. 

That charms me ; I can only say 
My love increases day b}' day ; 

That, more than tongue of mine can tell, 

I love her, love her — wondrous well ! 



98 




LOVE. 



TO- 



Love much resembles daybreak ; none can say 

When it begins, or when it terminates ; 
It comes and passes hke a dream away : 
Perhaps the common friendships of to-day 

May form to-morrow's loves, or next day's hates. 

Who waits for love, is loving while he waits; 
Who sneers at love, is loving while he sneers ; 

Who fears to love, is loving while he fears. 
All men, all women love : even I, who speak, 

I find I am a swimmer far from shore ; 
My soul is dizzy and my limbs are weak : 

Say, shall I sink, or strive a little more ? 
Why should I strive, when love will have its will ? 
I hate to love, and yet — I love thee still. 



99 




A WELCOME. 

I welcome thee, dear one, with kisses 

From harvest fields, — 
I welcome thee back from the blisses 

The country yields. 

I welcome thee back from the flowers 

Dew-fed and fair, 
Where the moments are mirth, and the hours 

Are woven of air. 

Where sweetest of singers are singing 

Fresh songs and sweet : 
Where all things seem banded in bringing 

One joy complete. 

I welcome thee, now that the summer 

Departing smiles : 
I welcome thee back as a comer 

From balmv isles : — 



I GO 



A Welcome. 



From isles that are history-haunted 

In vale and hill ; 
Whose atmospheres are enchanted 

And holy still. 

I welcome thee, holding it duty 

To prove my own 
Soul-summer as full of all beauty 

As thine — ^just flown ; 

My summer, that follows in wake of 

Thy summer sere : 
I welcome thee ! come and partake of 

It all the year ! 




lOI 



THEN— AND NOW. 

Not even a glance to say that I am seen ! 

Not even a glance from that soft starry eye — 

Not even a glance ! God knows the reason why ! 
I surely cannot be what I have been, 

Or, sweet, you would not pass unheeding by, 
Even were I vassal and yourself my queen ; 

Nor would you hold your sunny head so high. 
For I would bend it with the weight of love 

That I should shower upon it : I would bring 
Your heart to read in every star above 

Your name with mine entwined as queen and king, 
Lords of the earth, of love, of time, of fate — 
Supreme of all things being or small or great — 

Yea, lords of love — so lords of everything ! 

New York, Oct., 1879. 



102 



WE MET— WE PARTED. 



TO- 



We met — we parted : common ties 
No longer link us each to each : 

The future all before us lies, 

The past is all beyond our reach. 

We met — we parted : 'tis an old 
And time-worn tale : and yet to me 

It seemeth wonderful to hold 
A path that is unknown to thee. 

Could I but be the thing thou art, 
Or rather that thou seem'st to be — 

A thing of dull or deadened heart — 
I deem it might be well for me. 



103 



We Met— We Parted. 



Could I, as thou hast done, forget 
The pleasure and the promise flown, 

I should not be as I am yet — 
A creatu-re desolate and lone. 

But, ivy-like, I ever climb 

The closer to the shattered wall : 

Thus sadness mars my every rhyme, — 
My chaplet dark is cypress all. 

And as I strive to break the spell 
That links to sadness song and soul, 

I ever hear the "passing-bell," — 
My chime is but — a funeral toll ! 




104 



IS IT MY FATE P 



Is it my fate, — a trifle worse, 

Perhaps, than fates of most men are,- 

Some mystic and pecuhar curse 
Inseparable from my star ? 

Or is it, for I have been wild 

In youth, although I wished none ill, 

That Love, at which I one time smiled. 
Must prove herself revengeful still ? 

Or is it, — but thy lips are dumb, 
Thy lips hot with my kisses yet, 

That love became too burdensome 
For thee to bear as amulet ? 

Or art thou false ? If this be so, 
Then I, until these pulses cease 

To answer to the red blood's flow 
Will never take the hand of peace. 

For if it be that in the deep 

Of thy clear eye such thing is found 

As falsehood, — then let Virtue weep, — 

For truth is not where earth is round 
January, 1883. 

105 




TRUE LOVE AND TRIED. 

A RONDEL. 

True love and tried that never sleeps, 
Though all the world may sleep beside 

But still perpetual vigil keeps — 
True love and tried ! 

Whatever comes with time or tide, — 

Whoever sows — whoever reaps, — 
Still faithful will this love abide. 

Yea, more ! Beyond the purple steeps, 
Beyond the river's margin wide. 

We yet shall know thine utmost deeps, 
True love and tried ! 



1 06 



BY THE FOUNTAIN. 

By the margin of the fountain in the soulful summer 
season, 
While the song of silver-throated singers smote and 
shook the air, 
While the life seemed sweet enough to live without a 
ray of reason 
Save that it was, and that the world was lovely 
everywhere. 

By the fountain, — where the Oreads, through the moon- 
lit nights enchanted 
Of the summer, may have sported and have laved 
their shining limbs : 
By the fountain, — which in elder days the Moenadsmay 
have haunted, 
Giving all the praise to Bacchus, twining wreaths 
and singing hymns : 



107 



By the Fountain. 



By the fountain whose pellucid waves within the deli- 
cate basin 
Daintily tinkling, dropping dreamily, made a music 
in the ears 
Like the echo of some high, some arch-angelic diapason 
Drifting downward from the ever swinging never si- 
lent spheres : 

By the fountain fringed with laurel, whose green 
branches, intertwining, 
Let but few swift shafts of sunshine in to paint the 
odorous space, 
Lo ! a maiden fairer far than any future lay reclining 
On an arm whose white, warm beauty shot a splendor 
through the place. 

Oh, her eyes were like to Leda's lights divine to him 
who misses 
In a desert land his pathway when the moon is on the 
wane ; 
And her tress was dark as Vashti's, and her lips were 
ripe for kisses. 
Though on them had fallen no kiss as yet of passion 
or of pain. 

io8 



By the Fountain. 



And her smile was bright and splendid as the east 
when morn is breaking, 
Only softer far and sweeter, far diviner and more 
calm, 
And her voice was like the song of birds the sylvan 
echoes waking 
In the gardens of a king where gleam the myrtle and 
the palm. 

Then the blood that fed my pulses leaped to life as if 
Apollo 
Had recrossed the March meridian, bringing winter 
in his track. 
And my heart made merry music, while the streamlet 
in the hollow 
Did its very best to answer with a hopeful echo back. 

Then the poet and the lover leaped to life and wrought 
within me, 
Who 'neath many a constellation had been but a man 
to men : — 
Who had knelt before the altars and the fanes that fail- 
ed to win me 
From reproachings and repinings to my better self 

again. 

109 




SHALL THIS, TOO, FAIL ME ? 

Shall this, too, fail me ? Shall 

This swift-grown love, and sweet, 

Be doomed to fade and fall 
In ruins at my feet ? 

Shall evermore eclipse 

Succeed to dim my star ? 
Shall all fruit of my lips 

Prove fruit of Istakhar ? 

Is love a trifle, then ? 

Is woman's truth and trust 
Become a thing that men 

May trample in the dust ? 



And have we merely met 

To dream, and wake, and part- 
With an immortalized regret 

Inhabiting each heart ? 




CONSISTENCY. 



A SONNET. 



In the orient of our love, when all was bright, 

Ere youth's sweet sunshine faded from the heart 
As from the cheek, — ere ever came the night 

That comes to all, when men dispel in part 
The darkness gathering over them with light 

That is not light, or is the light of art, — 
Ere love is drowned in wine, thou bad'st me swear 

That I would never love save thee alone : 

I swore, but made (of course in undertone) 
A saving clause, to love none else — less fair. 
But now when we are old — for time has flown — 

I may as well confess how then I lied. 

But think not thou, though distance may divide, 
My love hath changed ! — I love thee, and — alone ! 



1879. 



MY LIFE. 

All for a luckless love — 

A boyish blunder — 
The heaven keeps black above, 

As Earth is under ! 

Tost like a leaf by the wind 

In the winter weather ; 
Tost by a Power unkind 

Hither and thither ! 

Tost as a weed on the tide 

Ot a shoreless ocean ! 
No haven wherein to hide — 

Eternal motion ! 

No knowledge of whither bound — 

My courage failing : 
Darkness and mist around — 

Eternal sailing ! 

New York, Oct., 1879. 

It must have been a strange spectacle to see the "in future" author of the 
Vicar of Wakefield and Citizen of the World strolling through Europe scraping 
an existence out of a diseased and dilapidated violin. But this is a world of 
anomalies. Strange things have grown familiar. — G. F. C. 



112 



WHAT NEW FOUND PAIN IS THIS? 

What new found pain is this — 

So cutting, keen of edge ? 
It seems there was a Judas-kiss 
s And is a broken pledge. 

What pain? 'Tis Hke all pain 

On earth of woman born, 
It soon will go ; and I again 

Laugh love and it to scorn. 

It soon will die, and yet 

I would it were not she 
Who gave it birth ! — but I forget, 

She is nothing now to me. 

She won m}' heart, and wore — 

To please her woman wit — 
It for a day, or something more. 

And then discarded it. 

And can I pardon this, 

Nor from my manhood fall, — 

The broken vow, the love, the kiss ? — 
I will forget them all. 



113 



CURSED BE THE BIGOTRY. 

Cursed be the bigotry which thus can tear 

Asunder those who love ! And doubly cursed 
Be they who Nature's order have reversed 

And made life's burden hard indeed to bear ! 

Why must I wear the gyves these choose to wear ? 
Why must I kiss the rod these choose to kiss ? 
Why must I call that bliss which is no bliss ? 

Why in an unrewarded labor share ? 
I loathe the Egyptian flesh-pots ; I defy 

The purpled Pharaohs, and their vaunted power — 
Their chariots and their horsemen ; yea, and I 

Will still defy them to my latest hour ! 
Believing in the end 'twill all be well, — 
For Nature knows and guides her chosen Israel. 



114 




WOULD I DRINK IT? 

Would I drink it — the cup of the beautiful Eld ? 

Tho' it saddened my heart, tho' it maddened my 
brain, 
I would hold it on high as I formerly held, 

And drink it, and drink it again and again. 

I would live yet awhile in the days which are dreams, — 
I would look on the star that illumined my path, — 

I would quaff from the bowl which was bright as its 
beams, — 
Though to-morrow I knew it the Marah of wrath. 



115 



THE COMMON FATE. 

Ineed not ask the reason why 

Thy love is given and lovehness 
To one who loves thee less than I, — 

Yea, less than I — far less ! 

Nor need I argue that it is 

Of human wisdom or divine, 
That thou art given to him for his, 

And not to me for mine. 

Nor will I envious rail at him 

Who broke my dream half-dreamed, and stole- 
To wear until its beauties dim — 

The bright crown-jewel of my soul. 

Nor can I blame thee : hardly thou 
Could'st ever guess the love I bore : 

For scarce I knew thee, ere a vow 
Had made thee his forevermore. 

Oh, 'tis of life the common law — 

It is in love the common fate — 
That man at length should say — "I saw !" 

Then sigh — ''but smu too late /" 

ii6 



MY LOVE-COMPELLING LOVE. 

My love-compelling Love, my more than friend, 

My dream by night, my thought the whole day long ! — 
If there be aught of beauty in my song, 

It is because my soul to thine doth tend : 

That thine from out its fulness still doth lend 
To mine a part of its particular grace 

As mystic as the motions of the spheres. 

Which keep their course in yonder azure space 

And fling on earth the measure of the years. 

All things are lovely ever in the light 

Of lovely eyes. Perchance 'tis thus thou see'st 
From thine own crimson chamber of the east 

Down in my vale, where all to me is night. 

Shoot through the shadows thick one shaft with radi- 
ance bright. 



117 



THOU ART MY FRIEND ? 

Thou art my friend ? 'tis well — my star ascends ! 

Few had I since the moment of my birth ; 
Nor thought I e'er to say — "We two are friends !" 

To aught that wears the livery of earth. 

I have had idols, — friends I called them then, — 
But Dagon-like they sought their native dust : 

I deemed them gods, and found them only men : 
1 deemed them kind, — they were not even just ! 

Friendship depends upon a brittle thread. 

Whose strands wear bravely in the summer days ; 

But when the winter comes, and cold and dread, 
When Fortune sheds no more his genial rays, - 

When cloud and storm appear, the fabric soon deca3'S. 



ii8 



Thou A7^t My Friend? 



And need I say I loved ? — Thou know'st it well : 
How well I loved thou dost not need to know. 

And need I say my castle faery fell, 

Or speak of those who joyed to see it low ? — 

I might have turned and answered blow for blow. 

I left them to themselves, nor chose to fan 
The flame of anger into further glow : 

I think, although that was no portion of their plan, 
They made the poet — when they marred the man 




119 



"AWAY FROM ME." 

The beach sighed for the sea when it had lost it, — 
Sighed for the sea it deemed too rude a sea, — 

When from its breathing bosom forth it tost it, 
Proud crying — "Away from me !" 

"So be it, dear beach !" the sad wave said, receding 
"The time shall come when it shall come to pass 

That you shall cry, and I shall hear, unheeding, 
'Away from me, alas !' " 

And here, dear maiden, may you find a moral : 
Think — ere you spurn true men for butterflies ; 

Think — ere you slaughter in a needless quarrel 
Life's opportunities ! 

Judge not by looks, but by immortal merit : 
Worth dwells forever in the hidden parts ; 

And oft the roughest-seeming ones inherit 
The very noblest hearts. 

Pause — ere you turn to dearth and dust and ashes 

A love divine, by bidding it go free ! 
So that you cry not, late, with wet eyelashes, 

"Alas ! — away from me !" 

Tybee Island, Georgia. 

1 20 



IS THERE A GOD ? 

Is there a God, then, above us ? 

I ask it again and again : 
Is there a good God to love us— 

A God who is mindful of men ? 

Is there a God who remembers 

That we have our nights as our noons ? 
Our dark and our dismal Decembers 

As well as our garden-gay Junes ? 



New York, Oct., 1879. 



IS THE GOD ? 

Is the God, then, deaf, that man 
Cries ever from depths of pain 

Till his soul is sick, and his heart is wan, 
And ever cries in vain ? 



Is the God, too, dumb, that He 
Deigns signal nor reply 

To any supplication we 
Address to Him on high ? 
New York, Oct., 1879. 




TO A COQUETTE. 

What though your lips be ripe and rare, 
And royal in their curve for kisses ? 

What though your eyes, too, do their share, 
And shoot a shaft that seldom misses ? 

What though your cheeks be ruby-red, 
And draw our sense like rich June-roses ; 

When, for a maiden's heart, 'tis said, 
Within your breast a flirt's reposes ? 

Reposes ? Yea, the very word ! 

For, from its silences and slumbers 
Nor song of bard, nor voice of bird. 

Nor Love, nor music's noblest numbers, 



123 



To a Coquette. 



Nor anything that ever was 

Of good, or glad, or high, or holy, 

Hath warmed or waked it to applause. 
Nor anything I know but Folly. 

Yet, mark me ! it will sometime wake, — 
How strong soe'er 3^ou wish to numb it. 

And, rousing to its new self, shake 
The ashes of its old self from it : — 

Will sometime wake, will sometime speak. 
Unheeding all your sensual hushes. 

And prophesy that even_}'07/r cheek 

Shall part with all its blooms, and blushes 

And tell you that 3'our eye shall lose 
Its lightning and your lip its beauty: 

And make you weep you did not choose 
To find your friends in Truth and Duty. 



— O"*- 



124 




PASSION. 

As when the wildfire sweeps o'er prairie wide, 
Devours the nettle choking up the way, 

Breathes on the hly nodding there in pride 
And turns its phime to darkness and decay : 

So o'er the soul the flame of passion goes, 
Destroys the hideous and alike the fair, — 

Alike the rankest weed, the rarest rose, — 
And leaves alone a waste of ashes there. 



125 



WHY FRUITLESSLY MOURN WE? 

Why fruitlessly mourn we — why chafe with our chain ? 

Know we not link by Hnk every chain will decay ? 
Why weep we in sorrow, why shrink we in pain ? 

These things pass away. 

Why thus do the noblest created despair ? 

The ill as the good hath its " go " as its " stay ;" 
For the good and the ill and the foul and the fair 

Shall all pass away. 

And the hope and the fear and the care and the toil 
Are but threads woven into the mantle of clay, 

And alike being Time and Oblivion's spoil 
Shall all pass away. 



126 



BRING A FITTING SHROUD! 

Bring a fitting shroud for the moments fled — 

The moments of music and mirth which were mine : 

Ah, what shall cover my beautiful dead 

But a fabric of moments as fair and as fine. 

Bring a fitting shroud for the love now fled, 
The love ever faithless, yet wondrously fair : 

Ah, what can cover my treacherous dead 

Save the heart which was warm and is cold with it 
there ! 



127 



'TIS STRANGE, YOU THINK. 

'Tis strange, you think, that I remember yet 
The word, the kiss, the parting place, the date. 

When Love fell dead before the feet of Fate ? 
Strange ? It were strange indeed, did I forget. 

The moon was westward, and her upper rim 
Was barely visible o'er the mountain head ; 

Hand locked in hand we stood, and then you said — 
Even as she set and all the land grew dim : — 

'T wonder will this love of ours set so, 

And all our lives grow dark, and cold, and drear, 
With but a star-beam floating there and here ?" 

And then you shuddered, and I answered — "No.' 

And yet I know not how it came to be — 

Half fault perhaps of yours, half fault of mine. 

We parted there amid the laiirestine; 

And with you anger went, regret with me. 

You cherished anger — I espoused regret : 
And as the moon now sets behind the hills, 

Through every vein the ancient memory thrills. 
That was the time — ah, how could I forget ! 

128 



NAY, I MAY NEVER LOVE AGAIN ! 

Nay, I may never love again ! — 

Love is for children, not for men : 
It is a measureless abyss. 

O'er arched with many a faithless kiss : 
It is a rainbow based on gloom, 

A lily waving o'er a tomb ; — 
The Muse might almost take her oath 

'Tis Scylla and Charybdis both. 



i2g 



MY MARRIAGE MORNING. 

Like that wild gladness warriors feel 
• In warriors who have carven a name, 
With their own hands and subtle steel, 
Upon the rock of Fame. 

Or nobler joy that poets know 

When from the brain where seemed a dearth 
Of thoughts, of things, of wit and worth. 

Spring thoughts that glint and gleam and glow 
And gladden all the earth : — 

Like that — all earthly joys above. 
This sweetest pain beneath the skies 

Which comes with the first kiss of love, 
And with it lives and dies. 



130 



My Marriage Morning. 



The clouds go by, and the new morrow breaks 
In beauty bright above the happy hills ; 

The throstle warbles and the west-wind shakes 
The shining daffodils. 

And all the flowers — the fair ones and the rare — 
Dance now that all the dusk and dark is done; 

Drink in the dew, scent the delicious air, 
And mock the morning sun. 

And, oh ! my heart, — that also knew the night. 
With cold moons gleaming and few stars above,- 

Wakes from its dreaming to the day's delight, 
Kist into life by love ! 

Yea, all vcvy soul, impatient of the dusk. 
Forsakes despair — its former chrysalis, — 

And, taking new wings, leaves its ancient husk 
To crumble at a kiss ! 

Millhaven, Ont., August 22nd, 1883. 



131 



A QUESTION. 

They say that disembodied friends 
Do sometimes hover round us here, 

And smooth our ways, and form our ends 
To suit the ever circhng year 

That with their coming ever blends. 

If so, the friend I loved hath now 
Improved the motion of my days 

And scattered round my burdened brow 
A few celestial-seeming rays ; — 
Relit my lamp — I know not how — 

From his own sphere of happiness, 
From his own orb of dear delight, 

And swept a moment my distress 
Into its native realm of night, — 

Into its native nothingness. 

But shall my sorrow come no more ? 

And shall I find an endless rest 
When my sad star hath vanished o'er 

The mist-girt mountains of the west 
To shine upon another shore ? 



132 



TRUE LOVE/' 

True love can never alter, — 

True love can never die : 
False love alone can falter, — 

False love alone can fly. 

Love, darling, needs to borrow 

No beauty of the morn 
Through day to the to-morrow 

It smiles with scorn on scorn : 

On hate — but devils only 

Can hate — it ever glows : 
True love leaves no heart lonely 

It glads where'er it goes. 

Even through the dust and ashes 

Of hope wet by sad tears 
It flings a flame which flashes 

Athwart the coming years. 

Aye, as the wild years flying 
For swiftness lose their breath, 

It goes with them, in dying 
It takes the hand of death. 

*Written September, 1885 — a few days before his death. So also the follow- 
ing pieces, the last of which was found in his pocket after death. — C. J. C. 




FIRST LOVE. 

Ah, love is deathless ! we do cheat 
Ourselves who say that we forget 

Old fancies : last love may be sweet, 
First love is sweeter yet. 

And day by day more sweet it grows 
Forevermore, like precious wine. 

As Time's thick cobwebs o'er it close, 
Until it is divine. 

Grows dearer every day and year, 
Let other loves come, go at will : 

Although the last love may be dear, 
First love is dearer still. 



Sept. 18S5. 



134 



ALL I ASK. 

Wherefore should I play the lover ? 

What care I for blushing bride ? 
All I ask when all is over 

Is to sleep by mother's side. 



Sept. il 



135 



STANDING ON TIPTOE. 

Standing on tiptoe ever since my youth 
Striving to grasp the future just above, 

I hold at length the only future — Truth, 
And Truth is Love. 

I feel as one who being awhile confined 

Sees drop to dust about him all his bars : — 

The clay grows less, and, leaving it, the mind 
Dwells with the stars. 



Sept. 1885. 



136 




A DELPHI. 

Fraternal love and truth and honor gone ? 
All faith divorced from life ? If this be so 
Man's star sinks westering, and thq world he walks- 
Untouched of any ray of future hope, 
Past all redemption, dead indeed in sin. 
Bearing the burden of the primal curse. 
Reels on to ruin, and her ancient dusk — 
Wheels through the darkness to her final time ! 
But is this so ? I think it were in me 
The veriest heresy to hold it so. 
When I, not seeking, stumble once, ev'n once 
In a whole lifetime, on a love like that 
Of Edgar, and of Albert Henderson — 
A love beyond the love of woman's love, 
A love beyond the love of woman far. 



137 



Adclphi. 



Two brothers, one is living still — from him 

I heard the stoxy, — Edgar Henderson, 

And Albert, older by a year or two. 

Loved one, and the same maiden, Minna Vane, 

The toast, and boast of all the country round, 

As fair as starlight, sweet as summer morn 

In tropic isles, and pure and good withal. 

She was their cousin, and from infancy 

Had dwelt beside them, mingled in their sport 

Whilst they were children, and when they had grown 

To manhood, in their sober studies joined, 

Till she became (and not unconsciously) 

A part and portion of the life of each, 

While they in turn became as dear to her. 

• 
To neither brother gave she preference ; 
Or, if she preference gave, it was not marked ; 
And if she preference had, she told it not. 
When Edgar saw that Albert loved the girl 
He would not speak to hurt his brother's hope ; 
When Albert saw that Edgar also loved 
He would not throw a pebble in his way ; 
When Minna saw that she was loved by both. 
Not dreaming wrong she fed them both on love. 

138 



Adelphi. 



Yet envy never crept between them ; they 
Were formed of proud material in the which 
No dross was mixed. They only wrangled thus, 
(In hall or hunt, an ever ready theme. 
Which made all others servant to itself) : 
" Now Edgar go to Minna, make her yours, 
She loves you vastly ; you have but to call 
And down the bird will flutter to your hand." 
And thus : " Nay, Albert, you who love her most. 
And are the elder, as the better man. 
You shall go to her ; you shall make her yours." 
Each chided each so twenty times a day, 
And were it fort}^ times 'twere all the same. 
Each loved his brother more than his desire. 

Once Albert sought and asked her secretly, 
" Do you love Edgar, cousin — yea or nay ?" 
But she made answer with a rose-red blush, 
(Which Albert might interpret as he would), 
" I love you both !" And Edgar also went, 
Unknown to Albert, and desired to know 
Whether she loved his brother ; but the maid 
Replied as ever, "I do love you both ! " 



139 



Adelphi. 



And when he fain would press her harder still 

For certain knowledge, in her woman-way 

She led him on to talk of other things, 

Till he forgot his mission, and went home 

Wise as he was the day before he asked. 

So many suns set circling, many moons 

Increased and waned, three summers came and went. 

And still the matter doubtful hung in court. 

But when the fourth year opened Edgar said, 

" See, brother ! full three years are dead and gone. 

And Minna sends all others from her side, 

Awaiting one of us ; you will not go 

To speak her, nor will I alone, now let 

Us go together, hand in hand, and say, 

' We love you, cousin, each of us, so choose 

Which one of us will add you to his joys. 

By your decision, be it what it may. 

We pledge our honor we shall rest content.' " 

And Albert rose and cried, "So be it then !" 

And forth they went and bade her take her choice. 

Then she, sweet Minna, of the golden hair 

And perfect form and face and starry eyes. 



140 



Adelphi. 



Said only ever when they came to her, 

Being weak, desiring but not knowing right, 

" Agree between yourselves, — I love you twain ; 

By your decision, be it this or that, 

I pledge my maiden faith I will abide." 

Now had she spake in other wise, and said, 

When Albert came — " I love your brother !" — then 

Edgar had won her ; or when Edgar asked 

Had she, " I love your brother Albert ! " said, 

Albert had had her : but " I love you twain : 

Go, settle the affair between yourselves. 

And I by your decision will abide." 

Perplexed them much, and they could not agree. 

And so another year was born of Time, 
Was stricken with extreme old age and died, 
And slumbered with his parents of the past, 
While Minna knew not who should be her lord. 
But when the second summer closed its buds 
And on each calyx prest a parting kiss ; 
When Autumn came with cooler winds and showers. 
And lowering clouds foreboding Winter's reign ; 
When late green leaves were tinting to their fall. 



141 



Adelphi. 



And Northern birds were looking towards the South 

And sighing for its suns and genial fruits, 

Breaking the seal of silence from his lip, 

" For the last time, my brother, she is yours, 

So answer, will 3'ou wed her — yes or no ?" 

Said Albert. " She xs yours,'' was the reply, 

" For you her heart hath waited many days ; 

For you she puts all other suitors by ; 

For you she hoards the hone}' of her lip. 

Wooed, as you know, by many a vagrant bee ; 

For you she hopes to wear her orange wreath ; 

Now, this being so (and well I know it is), 

I pray you, by the love you have for her, 

And by the love I have for her, make not 

A winter of her life, as you will do 

Not taking her unto your heart, for see ! 

Being fixt, beyond all change, or chance of change, 

I swear I will not wed her whilst you live ; 

And, swearing, wish you three score years and ten ; 

Nay, more, so that they be not burdensome, 

A golden age with golden joys annexed : 

Nor think that I will envy you your bliss, — 

That she will be ni}' sister is enough." 



142 



Adelphi. 



Then Albert leaned his head upon his hands, 

And knit his brow, and bit his nether lip, 

As if he rolled the matter to and fro. 

Which Edgar marking, thought " He yields at length, 

And he will wed her ; " but he knew him not, 

Albeit he was the brother of his soul. 

At length, " Well, leave me for an hour alone ; 

An hour ere this hath settled weightier things ; 

An hour shall loose, or cut, this Gordian knot. 

Come at its close, your answer will be here." 

Then Edgar, with a laugh upon his lip. 

And yet another rippling round his heart. 

Rejoicing in the sacrifice he made. 

And quaffing in anticipation from 

A cup of joy he thought should soon be full. 

To Minna went and told her all was well. 

They having settled it in quiet wise. 

But scarcely had the word fall'n from his tongue, 

When one came to hmi running. Calling him 

Aside, with trembling speed he told his tale : 



H3 



AdelpJii. 



" You had but left the Park when Albert came 

Into the armory, biting at his beard, 

And muttering ever strangely through its maze. 

Not dreaming I was watching him the while — 

' It is the only way, the only way, 

And being the only way it is the best.' 

Plucked from its rest a rapier, and ere I 

Divined his purpose sheathed it — in himself. 

I ran, and caught, and laid him down, when he 

With gentlest smile said, ' Maurice, you are late. 

It was the only way, the only way; 

Tell Edgar 'twas the only way, and best. 

And tell him that I loved him to the last. 

Far more than life, and more than my desire ; 

And tell him farther, 'twas my will and wish. 

And he will work it seeing it is my last. 

That he should wed his cousin.' Here the blood. 

Which left his wound, as water leaves its fount. 

Choked other utterance, and he drooped his head, 

And with your name half-spoken, gasped and died. 

Then Edgar, groping as a blind man might. 
And bending 'neath the burden of the blow, 



144 



Adelphi. 



The bitter burden of a new found pain, 

Walked through the stillness of the starry night, 

And through the giant shadows of the elms. 

Unto his home and knew it all too true. 

With funeral rite, but naught of pageantry, 

Albert was laid to slumber with his sires, 

And Edgar sorrowed for him many days. 

And Minna sorrowed with him for her friend : 

And when the accustomed time of mourning passed- 

(Albeit he mourned him ever in his heart,) 

Holding his dying wish in due respect, 

He went to Minna, none his rival now, 

And took her to his heart and hearth and home. 

To love and cherish her forevermore 

As one who had been purchased with a price. 

Such is the story as it came to me, 

Nor wrapt, nor woven in cunning word or phrase, 

But unadorned, unvarnished, simply clad. 

It may not cap your confidence in man, 

Nor rivet fast your mind to that / hold, 

But yet I hold, above the voice of all, 



10 145 



Adelphi. 



Though thrice a thousand rise denying it, 
That noble faith is not divorced from hfe, 
That love fraternal still abides on earth, 
And I do hope to hold it — to the end ! 

He told his story, and a pause ensued ; 

Such pause as comes betv^een the levin's light 

And the rough-throated thunder crash ; such pause 

As waters seem to make, the rapid reached. 

Before they take the leap and. jar the air 

And fling the spray of their wild agony 

Full in his face who ventures near to them : — 

Such pause befel. Then burst a babble forth 

Of many voices, as at Babel's tower. 

And every listener stood a critic crowned, 

Self-crowned as any critic, and self-made, 

And ready each at his own altar base 

To slay the poet who had dared to slay 

Their hate of love and the high heart of man. 



146 



Liyi^ie;? irj Pl^^^^nt rl^q(^^ 



Ah, me ! the mighty love that I have borne 
To thee, sweet Song ! A perilous gift was it 

My mother gave me that September morn 

When sorrow, song, and life were at one altar lit. 

A gift more perilous than the priest's : his lore 
Is all of books and to his books extends ; 

And what they see and know he knows — no more, 
And with their knowing all his knowing ends. 



A gift more perilous than the painter's : he 
In his divinest moments only sees 

The inhumanities of color, we 

Feel each and all the inhumanities. 



1885. 



147 



WISDOM— A SONNET. 

Wisdom immortal from immortal Jove 

Shadows more beauty with her virgin brows 
Than is between the pleasant breasts of Love 

Who makes at will and 'breaks her random vows, 
And hath a name all earthly names above : 
The noblest are her offspring ; she controls 

The times and seasons — yea, all things that are — 
The heads and hands of men, their hearts and souls. 

And all that moves upon our mother star, 
And all that pauses 'twixt the peaceful poles. 
Nor is she dark and distant, coy and cold, — 

But all in all to all who seek her shrine 
In utter truth, like to that king of old 
Who wooed and won — yet by no right divine. 



148 




DOWNS AND UPS. 

Dance of moonlight on summer waves, 
Drip of streamlet and dip of oar ; 

Echo softly singing in caves, 

Grounding keels on a shining shore : 

Laboring ships on wintry seas, 
Clamorous feet upon slimy decks ; 

Drowning shrieks on an angr}' breeze. 
Mangled corpses and tangled wrecks 

Music and laughter and love and song, 
Violets, roses, and lilies white ; 

Beautiful forms in a moving throng. 
Perfume and wine and a gala night. 



149 



Downs a7id Ups. 



A pale, worn face in an attic lone, 

Bending over a wretched bed, 
A clasp of hands, a dying moan, 

The rattle, the hush — and a spirit fled ! 

Golden prospects and ominous clouds ; 

Impassable walks and level drives ; 
Glittering silks and colorless shrouds ; 

Flattering records, and shattered lives : 

Brimming fountains and empt}^ cups ; 

Beggars and nobles — peasants and kings 
These are a few of our downs and ups, — 

A part of the total of human things. 




150 



ANTICIPATION. 

Anticipation is the oil that feeds 

The flame of Hfe. It is the Siren fair 
That sings at twilight in the hollow reeds, 

And drowns the moaning discord of despair. 
Nay, now in darkest night it comes to me, — 

It dulls the edge of every present care : 
Blots from the tablets of the memory 

What hath been ill, or is, inscribing there 
In golden letters that which yet may be 

Of earth's good things my individual share. 
And should the days be drearier in age, 

And disappointment part of mine estate. 
With fortune I shall not a warfare wage. 

But sing my song as now, — as now anticipate. 



151 



PAST AND FUTURE. 

The Past ! — In even our oldest songs 

Regret for older past appears, — 
The Past with all its bitter wrongs, 

And bitter, buried 3^ears : 
With all its woes and crimes and shames, - 

Its rule of sword, and king, and cowl — 
Its scourges, tortures, axes, flames. 

And mj-riad murders foul ! 

The Future ! To our latest lays 
A common strain of longing clings 

For future nights, and future days. 
And future thoughts and things. 



152 



Past and FtUttre. 



The Future ! Who of us will see 

This Future, — in its brightness bask ? 

Ye ask the Future ? — Let it be ! 
Ye know not what ye ask. 

'Tis best, — let Folly still lament 

The past, or for the future yearn, — 
With this large Present well content. 

To watch, and work, and learn : 
Assured that, if we do aright 

What must by us to-day be done. 
The three shall open to our sight — 

Past, Present, Future — One ! 




153 




THE BEST PHILOSOPHY. 

If there be aught of light behind 
The grave's sepulchral gloom ; 

If this, so-called, immortal mind 
Shall triumph o'er the tomb, 

Man well may laugh at death, and find 
A pleasure in his dpom. 

Or if Omnipotence decrees 

A harsher fate to men. 
If Truth, and Love, and Joy, if these 

Shall not be ours again. 
What is of good 'twere well to seize, 

And laugh in life even then. 

Ay, this is best philosophy, — 

, The present to enjoy ; 
To trust but little what may be 

Our after-death employ. 
Since after-life is mystery. 

And Hope — a fragile toy ! 



154 




WITH A FAITH. 

With a Faith 

So firm, so full, so reverent as thine, 
Triumphant trampling over life and death — 

All but divine, — 

Hold it fast ! 

For earth hath many winning voices, each 
Striving to win the people from the past 

With cunning speech !— 

I could win, 

Methinks, some solace in this world of ours, 
Transforming to rich music its rude din. 

Its weeds to liowers : 



^55 



With a Faith. 



Life's wild storms 

To calms : its darkness all to light, 
And its most hideous and repelling forms 

To beauty bright. 

I could live 

In proud defiance of Earth's utmost scorns ; 
Pluck all the joys existence had to give, — 

Shun all the thorns. 

I could die 

Calm as a foam bell on a placid wave. 
Calm as a love-lit dream, yet living I 

Would be — a slave. 




156 



AT THE CROSS-ROADS. 

To which hand shall I turn ? 
That road upon the right ascends the hill, 
Abrupt, all but impassable : 

This on the left, as I discern, 
Winds down the vale beside the wimpling burn 
And lake star-fair and still : — 

To which hand shall I turn ? 

Shall I not walk in this — 
The left, the smooth and ever pleasant way ; 
Where birds shall greet me as I stray 

With strains oracular of bliss ; 
Where every care I may dismiss — 
Where all is garden-gay, 

Shall I not walk in this ? 

No — in the other. Why ? 
The one road was so bitter, bleak, and bare, 
The other was so wonderfully fair. 

With every gift to please the eye, — 
With sun and shade and flowers and song, — 
How should I choose nor choose the wrong ? 

One word I heard — " Beware ! " 
So paused and pondered long. 
157 



ON LIFE'S SEA. 

On Life's sea ! Full soon 

The evening cometh^ — ^cheerless, sad, and cold ; 
Past is the golden splendor of the noon, 

The darkness comes apace — and I grow old. 

Yet the ship of Fate 

Drives onward o'er the waters mountain high ! 
And now the day goes out the western gate 

And not a star is smiling in the sky. 

Gloom before — behind ! 

Rude billows battling with an iron shore 
On either hand : anon, the chilling wind 

Smiting the cordage with an angry roar. 

Then the compass veers 

And doth avail not : for the dust of earth 
Hath marred its beauty, and the rust of years 

Hath made its mechanism of little worth. 



158 



On Lifes Sea. 

And iho' oft I gaze 

Into the lost, yet ever lovely Past, 
And strive to call a power from perished days 

With which to dare the midnight and the blast, 

The power flies my hand ; 

And my sad heart grows wearier day by day, 
Beholding not the lights which line the land 

And throw their smile upon the desert way : 

For the star of Hope 

Shed but one beam along the lonely path. 
Then slid behind the clouds adown the slope, 

And set forever in a sea of wrath ! 

Yet the ship moves on — 

Aye, ever on ! still drifting with the tide, 
With F'aith alone to look or lean upon. 

As pilot o'er the waters wild and wide. 

Yet for all, I feel 

My bark shall bound on billows gentler rolled. 
Be Faith my pilot, then, until the keel 

Shall kiss and clasp the glittering sands of gold ! 



159 



ALL HEART-SICK. 

A.11 heart-sick, and head-sick, and weary, 
Sore wounded, oft struck in the strife, 

I ask is there end of this dreary, 

Dark pilgrimage, called by us Life ? 

I ask is there end of it — any ? 

If any, when comes it anigh ? 
I would die not the one death but many 

To know and be sure I should die. 

To know that the sighing and sadness 
Should vanish and leave not a trace, 

Although never a sunbeam of gladness 
Should shine on my soul in its place. 

To know that there was no Hereafter — 

Hereafter of sorrow or joy ; 
No time of mirth, music or laughter, — 

Not a moment of time of annoy. 

To know that somewhere in the distance. 
When Nature shall take back my breath, 

I shall add up the sum of existence 
And find that its total is — death ! 

New York 1879. 

160 



THE ROSES AND THORNS OF LIFE. 

Ah, well ! 'Tis as old as this world of ours, — 
The few are born to the couch of ease, 

But the great men only — these, ah, these 
Are born to the thorns and not the flowers. 

And He who made it so best knows 
What is our good ; and so the man 

Goes forth, fulfilling nature's plan, 

Grasping the thistle — passing the rose. 



i6i 



THE MAYFLOWERS 

(impromptu) 

You ask me, dear friends, a toast to propose ? 

Let me think for a moment — ah, yes ! it shall be 
The sweet-scented blossom that blooms 'neath the snows, 

The sweet little Mayflower for me. 

You may drink to the thistle, the shamrock, the rose, — 
May they each bloom on Liberty's shore ; 

But my toast is the Mayflower that blooms 'neath the 
snows, 
The bonniest, best of the four ! 



*The National Emblem of Nova Scotia. 



162 




EDGAR ALLAN POE. 

Though all the world forbear, Columbia weep : — 
Guard well the grave where Edgar's ashes sleep 

Let fairest flowers and rarest lilies grow 

Where sleeps in dust thy noblest genius — Poe ! 



163 



QUID REFERT P 

"They had Hved and loved, and walked and worked 
in their own way, and the world went by them. Be- 
tween them and it a great gulf was fixed : it cared no- 
thing for them, and tJiey met its every catastrophe with 
the Quid Refert? of the philosophers.'''' 

*De la Roque. 

What care we for the winter weather, — 

What care we for set of sun, — 
We, who have wrought and thought together. 

And know our work well done ? 

What do we care though glad stars glitter 
For others only ? Though mist and rain 

Be over our heads ? Though life be bitter, 
And peace be pledged to pain ? 



164 



Quid Refert ? 



What care we ? Is the world worth minding, 
The sad, mad world with its hate and sin ? 

Is the key worth seeking for, or finding, 
Of the Cretan maze we wander in ? 

What care we though all be a riddle, — 
Both sea and shore, both earth and skies ? 

Let others read it ! We walk that middle, 
Unquestioning way where safety lies. 

And care not any for winter weather, 
And care no more for set of sun, — 

We who have wrought and thought together. 
And know our work well done ! 



'Myself, G. F. C. 




WHEN EVERY HOPE. 

When every hope the heart hath held 
And every joy the heart hath known 

Depart, yet leave a soul unquelled 
In moody grandeur on its throne, 

I sigh — and wish it all m}' own : — 
I sigh, and wish such spirit mine 

That I may soar above distress 
And prove that man may be divine 

In his own native lordliness. 

But what my fate ? — To weave in song 
My idle fancies, and to grope 

With troubled spirit through the throng 
From fear to fear — from hope to hope : 

And if I sometimes strive to cope 
With these forebodings of the soul. 

Too soon, alas ! I feel and know 
'Tis but a Samson-hand can roll 

The stone upon the tomb of woe. 

1 66 



ON- 



A singer, I admit : but hath his song 

E'er eased the sad, sick soul, e'er dried the eye 
Of secret sorrow, bruised the head of wrong, 

Or woke the heart to hsten to the cry 
Of Right down-trodden by the despot-throng ? 

No ? Then, so please 3'ou, we will put him by. 

He is a poet ? Never ! I deny 
He hath a portion of the sacred rage. 
All flowers of speech may bloom upon his page, — 

His soft words on my senses idly fall : 
Not having any utterance for his age. 

He hath no power to stir my blood at all ; 
So off with him to moulder on the shelf ! — 
He knows not man, nor any God save self. 



167 




ON McDonald clarke. 

(the mad poet) 

Unhappy, penniless, alone ! 

With doubt before, and debt behind ; 
With reason tottering on her throne, 

And love a bitterness, being blind : 

With passions much too largely framed 
For his poor body to control, 

He went his way all unashamed 

And wooed the muse with all his soul. 

So, poets, take him from the throng 

Of weaklings who have feigned to wake 

The lyre, and name him in your song, 
And crown him for the muse's sake ! 



i68 



TO 

Not often, in these latter days 
Of gloss and glass and overpress, 

Do poets by the world's highways 
Pluck plumes of everlastingness. 

Not often — where the eagle sweeps — 
About the sun-swathed crags of ice, 

Do they, uprising from the deeps, 

Reach forth and pluck their edelweiss. 

Not often. — For the elders took 
The best of fancy's flowers so fair ; 

Or, passing, in their frenzy shook 
All trees and left the branches bare. 

And yet, methinks that thou hast found 
A something — subtle as a sense ; 

A something — sweeter than a sound, 
Which means eternal eminence. 



i6g 



A FACE. 

I mark at a window over the way 

A woman who sits most patiently there 

Whose face is as pale as a stellar ray — 
As pale, and as pure, and as fair ; — 

A face you might look upon all the day, — 
A face like a beautiful petrified prayer ! 



170 



JOHN MILTON. 

A name not casting shadow any ways, 
But gilt and girt about with hght divine ; 

A name for men to dream of in dark days, 

And take for sun when no sun seems to shine- 

Thou sightless wearer of immortal bays, 
Thou Milton of the sleepless soul is thine ! 



171 



THREE SONNETS. 

ON LEAVING NOVA SCOTIA, 1874. 



Farewell ! And I must speak the word to-day ; 

And I must leave what I have known so long, — 

And only known to love, and loved to know ! 
The breeze moves strongly outward from the bay, — 

And here and there amid the busy throng 
Affection wrings the hands of those who go, 

And love as deep the hearts of those who stay. 
The feast is o'er, and sad the parting song ! 
Why not ? These hills our feet have trod in youth : 

Why not ? These vales our earliest vision knew : 
Why not ? These friends — we long have prov'n their 
truth : 

And now to each and all we bid adieu ! 
The lines are cast : loud rings the warning bell : 
Swift clasp of hands, brief kiss, — and long farewell ! 



172 



Three Sonnets. 



I stand alone at midnight on the deck, 

And watch with eager eye the sinking shore 
Which I may view, it may be, nevermore : 
For there is tempest, battle, fire, and wreck, 

And ocean hath her share of each of these, — 

Attest it, thousand rotting argosies. 
Wealth-laden, sunken in the southern seas 1 

And who can say that evermore these feet 
Shall tread thy soil, Acadia ? Who can say 

That evermore this heart of mine shall greet 
The loved to whom it sighs adieu to-day ? 
Our sail is set for countries far away; 

Our sail is set, and now is no retreat, 
Though Ocean should but lure, like Beauty, to betray ! 



173 



Three Sonnets. 



When shall I see them all again ? I say, 

Now that the loved, lost land lies far a-lea, — 
Now that we are upon the world's highway, 

Now that we are alone upon the sea. 
When shall I meet them all, when shall it be ? 

When shall I come to them, if ever ? When 
Shall I come back to these dear ones again ? 
Speak, ocean-winds ! Is it beyond your ken ? 

When shall I come to them, or they to me ? 
I hear no tone ; no token gives the wind : 

The onl}^ voice is where above the shrouds 
The sea-mew screams defiance to the clouds : 

Till Night comes down, about, before, behind. 
And locks all lands from sight, but locks not mine from 
mind ! 




174 



TRUE GREATNESS. 

What is true greatness ? Is't to climb 
Above the rocks and shoals of time 

To sculpture on some height sublime 
A name 

To live immortal in its prime 
And flush of fame ? 

What is true greatness ? Is't to lead 
Your armed hirelings on to bleed, 

And move a terrible god, indeed, 
An hour ; 

To sate your lust of gold, or greed 
Of despot power ? 



^75 



Trite Greatness. 



What is true greatness ? Question not, 

But go to yon secluded spot 
And enter yonder humble cot 

And find 
A husbandman who never fought 

Or wronged his kind : 

For whom the lips of war are dumb : 
Who loves far more than beat of drum 

The cattle's low, the insect's hum 
In air : 

And find true greatness in its sum 
And total there ! 

What is true greatness ? 'Tis to clear 
From sorrow's eye the glistening tear : 

To comfort there, to cherish here, 
To bless : 

To aid, encourage, and to cheer 
Distress. 



176 



TO JOHN RHODE. 

A POSTAL. 

From Tybee, John ! from joyless Georgian Tybee, — 
From godless, graceless Tybee by the sea, 

Whereon at present a sojourner I be, 
A word from me ! 

Fill high the bowl — and fill it to o'erflowing ! 

High let the flagon flash, and flare, and foam : 
For Thursday next I'm going, going, going, 

I'm going home. 

I hate to leave — -God bless the loves ! — the ladies 
With their dark eyes and smiles that thrill me so ; 

But, peste ! the atmosphere is hot as Hades, 
And I must go. 

So please the gods, then, and the wind blows steady 
And favoring, Monday next I'll blow the foam 

From off a cup, — be sure and have it ready ! — 
With you at home ! 

Tybee Island, Georgia, June, 1882. 
12 177 



TYBEE. 

Lone Ultima Thule, fare thee well ! 

Upon thy ocean-battered shore 

If it should be that nevermore 
In all this life my eyes should dwell ; 

If it should be that 'neath thy shades, 
No more in rapture to my breast, 
When the red sun is in the west. 

These arms shall clasp thine amorous maids ; 

If it should be, that I shall gaze. 

When the broad moonbeams on it sleep. 
No more upon thine emerald deep, 

I bow to Fate's mysterious ways : 

And, leaving in the hands of Him 

Who threads the future through and through 
The few who stay, the faithful few. 

Say only, as the woods grow dim. 

And as the wild-voiced sea winds swell, — 
Say only, as I wave my hand 
For the last time out toward thy strand, 

Lone Ultima Thule— fare thee well ! 

Atlantic Ocean, off Tybee, June, 1S82. 

178 




INSULM FORT UN AT. ^ 

Oh, for a breeze from the balmy islands, 
The fortunate islands and blest of the sea ! 

Vine-lands or pine-lands, lowlands or highlands, 
So they be summer lands— nought care we. 

Here are we thralled by the autocrat hoary 
And heartless — the hater of lily and rose — 

Winter, who gives us no gleam of the glory 

And brightness and bloom that the summer-time 
knows. 

Here Love lies dormant or dead for a season ; 

Joy plumes her wing for less desolate clime ; 
Hope flings farewell to us, giving no reason ; 

Faith even goes star-ward to tarry a time. 



179 



Insula: FortunatcF. 



Paean Apollo, disdaining to linger, 

Calls to his lovers of song and of shine. 

Calls those who love him, and, pointing the finger 
Fair to the southward, goes over the Line, 

So then, of sweetness, of summer forsaken, 
What is the wonder that ones who are wise 

Sigh for the isles where forever men waken 
To scent-laden airs and to song-laden skies ? 

What wonder we long for a breeze from the islands- 
The beautiful islands and blest of the sea ? — 

Vine-lands or pine-lands, lowlands or highlands. 
So they be summer lands — nought care we ! 

Kingston, November, 1882. 




180 



TO MY BROTHER CHARLEY. 

Though others fail or fly, 

Thou wilt not fail me — thou ! 

I read it in thy clear, calm eye 
And steadfast brow. 

Whate'er of good or ill 

May chance with time or tide, 
To me and mine unchangeable 

I feel thou wilt abide. 

Though my high hopes decay, 
Though summer-friends depart, 

I know that thou wilt cling alway 
To me, heart of my heart ! 

Until Life's storm subsides, 
And o'er the billow's crest 

My vessel all victorious rides, 
Or lies a wreck— at rest. 



THE GOLDEN TEXT. 

You ask for fame or power ? 

Then up, and take for text : — 
This is my hour, 

And not the next, nor next ! 

Oh, wander not in ways 

Of ease or indolence ! 
Swift come the days, 

And swift the days go hence. 

Strike ! while the hand is strong: 
Strike ! while you can and may 

Strength goes ere long, — 
Even yours will pass away. 



Sweet seem the fields, and green, 
In which you fain would lie: 

Sweet seems the scene 
That glads the idle eye : 

182 



The Golden Text. 



Soft seems the path you tread, 
And balmy soft the air, — 

Heaven overhead 

And all the earth seems fair : 

But, would 3^our heart aspire 
To noble things, — to claim 

Bard's, statesman's fire — 
Some measure of their fame ; 

Or, w^ould you seek and find 
Their secret of success 

With mortal kind ? 

Then, up from idleness ! 

Up — up ! all fame, all power 
Lies in this golden text : — 

This is my hoiir^ 

And not the next, nor next ! 



Boston, 1882. 



183 



-THE ^^WEEK" vs. WENDELL PHILLIPS. 



They sneer at him who ever wrought — 
Disdaining any earthier aim, — 

To keep whatever God begot 

As something — something worthy name 
A man whose breath was fan and flame 

To bhght and blast a bitter wrong : 
Who held it as his fairest fame 

To cheer the weak and curb the strong ? 

II. 

They sneer at Jiii>i who was a foe 
To every man that menaced man ! 

Who went, as brave hearts always go. 
To cannon lip and battle van ; — 
Who never owned a rout, nor ran ;— 

Who, till the final field was won. 
Up from the day the fight began 

Still bared his breast to wind and sun ! 



*In answer to a virulent attack upon the dead orator which appeared in the 
columns of the Week directly after the announcement of his death. 

184 



The ''Week' vs. Wendell Phillips. 



They sneer at him who dropped and died,- 

The harness on him — in the way ; 
Who ever taught and ever tried 

To date a good from every day ; 

Who spoke when Freedom went astray 
And waked and warned and won her, too, 

With words that die not, nor decay ; — 
Still to he Freedom^ and be true ! 

IV. 

They raise their voice and rail at him 
Who was as high above their ken 

As stars that in the zenith swim 
Are high above the heads of men ! 
Back to forgetfulness again 

When they and theirs alike are fled, 
This Phillips' work of lip and pen 
Shall ride on earth high-charioted ! 



185 



MAN, BOAST NOT OF THY FRIENDS. 

Man, boast not of thy friends, until 

They have been tried in fortune's flame : 

Until, in day of pain and ill 

They friendship's holy vows fulfil, 

And prove that time can change nor kill 
What is forevermore the same. 



Wait, till thy faltering footsteps tread 
That dim, mysterious, distant, dread. 

To us unknown abode ; 
If then thou hast but one true friend 

Who trod with thee life's journey o'er. 
Weep not to part ! — such steps will tend 
Together yet ; such souls will blend 

Like music — on another shore. 



DISCONTENT. 

The morning's mirth, the midnight's grief, 
These wait on each and all of us — 

On yonder slave, on yonder chief — 
The great one and the small ol us. 

We fain would fly the future fact, — 

Avoid the very way of it ; 
But every deed we do, each act 

Of ours but draws the day of it. 

We fret like foreigners on earth 

And fools, and cry: — O shame of it ! 

Why had we being, why had we birth, 
To bend and bear the blame of it ? 

Why did we ever see the sun. 
When we must see the set of it ? 

'Twere well if day had ne'er begun. 
For all the good we get of it ! 
1883. 

187 




TO WENDELL PHILLIPS. 



A FRAGMENT. 



O eloquent-lipt last lover of mankind, 

Full-veined apostle, blest of God above !^- 

Hath Death the dark, the bitter and the blind — 
Called halt, and clipped thy mission work of love ? 

Far in the dim and undivined somewhere — 
In what hope holds as better yet-to-be, 

Drinking deep draughts of more immortal air. 
We hope to meet, and walk, and talk with thee. 



February 3rd, 1S84. 



MY FAITH. 

I would not blot the star of Hope 
That hangs so palely in the skies : 

But, giving thought a larger scope, 
And following wheresoe'er it flies, 

I find I hate nor sects nor creeds, 
Yet have a creed all creeds above, 

Whose faith consists in noble deeds, 
Whose highest law is highest love. 



And thus I do not feign, but feel 

A different faith from the.e, my friend ! 

And yet, perhaps, through woe and weal 
They both lead on to one grand end. 



/ AM YOUNG. 

I am young, and men 

Who long ago have passed their prime 
Would fain have what I have again, — 

Youth, and it may be — time. 

To gain these, and make 

Life's end what it may not be now, 
Monarchs of thought and song would shake 

The laurels from their brow. 

And each king of earth, 

Whose life we deem a holiday. 

For this would give his kingship's worth 
Most joyously away ! 



I go 



THE POETS REASON. 

You ask me why I write, yet print not ? I 

Have heard there hved far back in the past ages 

A mighty sage amid the mighty sages 

Of earth, and one whose name may never die. 
Who thus was questioned, and did thus reply : 

I cannot practise that I preach, and so 
I must not preach the thing I cannot do : 

But it is meet for self to take a view 

Of inner and of outward things, although 

These thoughts or things be neither nice nor new. 

And when these musings into verse will flow, 
I hold it right to keep them to myself. 
Nor lumber up my neighbor's groaning shelf! 



191 



TO THE WEST WIND. 

West wind, come from the west land 
Fair and far ! 
Come from the fields of the best land 
Upon our star ! 

Come, and go to my sister 

Over the sea : 
Tell her how much I have missed her. 

Tell her for me ! 

Odors of lilies and roses — 

Set them astir ; 
Cull them from gardens and closes, — 

Give them to her ! 

Say I have loved her, and love her : 

Say that I prize 
Few on the earth here above her. 

Few in the skies ! 

Bring her, if worth the bringing, 

A brother's kiss : 
Should she ask for a song of his singing. 

Give her this ! 



Boston. 



192 



TO LOUISE.- 

My Sister ! It is long since thou and I 
Have been together, and it may be long 

Ere we shall meet again : thou dwellest nigh 

Our childhood's home : I mingle with the throng, 
Though thou dost know I do not there belong ; 

For I abhor the spirit of the mart 

That makes our air an atmosphere of wrong ; 

That checks the growth of every noble art. 

And poisons each pure spring that issues from the heart. 

Earth hath not much to love : but soon I learned 
To love those things it hath of good or great ; 

To noble deeds and noble words I turned, 

And marked my own bright pathway. If stern fate 
Hath changed its proper current, mine estate 

Is not less noble : I shall walk alone, — 
Not with a mien defiant and elate, 

But in humility, — and if I own 

No kinship with the crowd, to them 'twill not be known. 



■*Mrs. Stewart, New Glasgow, Nova Scotia. 
13 193 



To Louise. 



But Fate is lord, and we are slaves of Fate : 

His wish, his will, his word our law supreme ; 
And we, perforce must touch the things we hate. 

Though such was not our own fantastic dream : 

For we are onl}^ bubbles on a stream. 
And as the torrent goes, we too must go, — 

Now wrapped in darkness, now by Cynthia's beam 
Made beautiful and bright : and if we know 
Nought of our final end, 'tis best it should be so. 

Yea, this is as it should be : for if we 

Could onl}' know in youth what we must know 

When youth is ours no longer, few would see 
The summer sun of life ; for most would go 

To probe at once the spell of mystery, 

And sound its dreadful depth of weal or woe : — 

Would free the bird, and spurn tlie narrow cage, 

Nor wait to taste the marah of old age. 

WHiich would be most unwise. It is so sweet 
To drink life's chalice to its very lees ; 

To crush the daisies with your dotard feet, 
And mourn departed opportunities ; 



194 



To Louise. 



To see your hopes wrapped in their winding-sheet ; 
To spend your days and nights upon your knees ; 
To Hve a dreary Hfe, a weary slave, — 
To tumble trembling to a dismal grave. 

But let us dream awhile that we are free, — 

Free as God's azure ! Casting care aside. 
Be once again the things we used to be, 

Ere I had drifted out upon the tide, — 

Ere I had sailed on seas unsanctified ; 
Ere thou had'st put the mantle of the maid 

Away, to wear the mantle of the bride : 
Stray once again where once our footsteps strayed. 
Play once again beside the stream where once we played. 

Come, let us dream our bosoms still contain 
The essences of pleasure ; that the bloom 

Of happy youth is on our cheeks again ! 

Come, let us drive away each thought of gloom 
That in our breasts hath ever yet found room ! 

Come let us roam together hand in hand. 

And pluck the flowers full -freighted with perfume — 

With dew-drops sparkling, and by south-winds fanned, — 

The flowers that gem the fields of our beloved land ! 



195 



To Louise 



Come, while the world grows old, we will grow young ! — 
Read o'er again the books we wont to read, — 

Methinks I hear the accents of thy tongue 
As thou dost say, " We may do this, indeed, 
But all the rest — ?" I pr'ythee still take heed ! — 

Or, let us watch the reapers as they reap. 

Or watch the boats that down the river speed : 

To-day on pleasure pleasure let us heap, — 

To-morrow we shall wake, — perchance, to-morrow weep! 

To-morrow waken ? I have wakened now ! 

The scene grows dim, and broken is the spell : 
The lines of age come back upon my brow — 

The heart grows older than the tongue can tell : 

Enchantment, Beauty, Pleasure— all farewell ! 
Oh, blame me not, Louise, that I did call 

Illusion to delight me from her cell ! 
Her tone was sweet as ever yet did fall 
On mortal ear : — alas, 'tis silent soon and all ! 

Each sunny-featured fancy fades away ; 
Stern, iron-visaged Duty claims her due ; 



196 



To Lottise. 



Melts as a dream the prospect garden-gay, 
Which but this moment recollection drew, — 
And forth I fare to face the fray anew. 

Well, there are honors in all wars to gain, — 
And be my chaplet laurel-leaves or yew. 

And be the sequel pleasure all or pain, 

This much will Time attest, — no fight is fought in vain 

Whatever moves, the end is recompense 
For every action, whatsoe'er the end ! 

In this I have 'gainst every ill defence. 
How thick and fast soever ills impend : 
And if at times the body chance may bend, 

O'erburdened pilgrim ! weary in the way, 
I deem the stronger spirit still will lend 
A faith and strength unto the weaker clay, 

That it may well endure — until the close of day ! 




197 



SIC TRANSIT. 

A noble record ! so he said in pride, 
A noble record, and right nobly won, 
Which ages yet to be shall look upon ; 

A noble record ! so he said — and died. 

And, lo ! the years came up from out the sea 

Of time ; like dreams all old things passed away 
The bud that gave rich promise yesterday 

Of fair and fragrant immortality 

Dropped faded, withered — ceased for aye to be,— 

And with it died the poet's proudest lay. 



198 




WHAT THEY MEANT. 

(impromptu) 

There is a man — an Ishmaelite, 

Who never (hardly) does a square thing, 
Got drunk, alas ! one Sunday night. 

Which was — alas ! again — no rare thing. 
Whose friends all prophesied that he 

(Of course they said it not in malice !) 
Would break his neck upon a tree, 
Or have it broken, so you see 
'Twas just the same to you, and me. 

And him, — they meant the gallows. 



199 



THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 

We sneer and we laugh with the hp — the most of us do 
it, 
Whenever a brother goes down hke a weed with the 
tide ; 
We point with the finger and say — Oh, we knew it! we 
knew it ! 
But, see ! we are better than he was, and we will abide. 

He walked in the way of his will — the way of desire, 
In the Appian way of his will without ever a bend ; 

He walked in it long, but it led him at last to the mire, — 
But we who are stronger will stand and endure to the 
end. 

His thoughts were all visions — all fabulous visions of 
flowers. 
Of bird and of song and of soul which is only a song ; 
His eyes looked all at the stars in the firmament, ours 
Were fixed on the earth at our feet, so we stand and 
are stronsr. 



The Way of the World. 

He hated the sight and the sound and the sob of the 
city ; 
He sought for his peace in the wood and the musical 
wave ; 
He fell, and we pity him never, and why should we 
pity- 
Yea, why should we mourn for him — we who still 
stand, who are brave? 

Thus speak we and think not, we censure unheeding, 
unknowing, — 

Unkindly and blindly we utter the words of the brain ; 
We see not the goal of our brother, we see but his going. 

And sneer at his fall if he fall, and laugh at his pain. 

Ah, me ! the sight of the sod on the coffin lid. 

And the sound, and the sob, and the sigh of it as it, 
falls ! 

Ah, me ! the beautiful face forever hid 
By four wild walls ! 

You hold it a matter for self-gratulation and praise 
To have thrust to the dust, to have trod on a heart 
that was true, — 
To have ruined it there in the beauty and bloom of its 
days ? 
Very well ! There is somewhere a Nemesis waiting 
for you. 



O LADY FAIR AND DEBONAIR ! 

O lady fair and debonair, 

Why dost thou weep in darkness there ! 
Why mourning now ? why dost thou bow 
Thy flower-hke head and starry brow 

Crowned with so wondrous wealth of hair ? 
Those eyes of thine were made to shine — 
So deep their hue is and divine — 
Where love and light and beauty bright 

Do make a splendor of the night. 

Now, pardon me, but, can it be 

That love has proven false to thee ? 

Speak, lady, speak ! Hath Love been weak 

And sought afar a fairer cheek ? 
Then Love must seek it over sea. 

Nay, should he roam afar from home 

For fairer o'er the farthest foam. 

His task is done — his race is run : — 
There is no fairer, lady, none. 



202 



O Lady Fair and Debonair 



Forgive me still, since sin I will — 

Though not to work thee any ill — 
But, hath there been of sons of men 
One loved who did not love again, — 

Whose breast hath proven invincible ? 
Then, lad}^ know — 'tis better so : 
Forgive, forget, and let him go ! 
Since he hath shown his heart was stone, 
Lo, I will sacrifice mine own. 

Thy pardon, yet ! — I did forget 

The weightier ills that do beset : 
Did lightly speak, and vainly seek 
The reason of thy pallid cheek. 

Bowed head and heart, and eyelids wet 
Some bitter woe, some fearful blow 
Hath touched thee thus, it must be so : 
So at thy feet I bend me. Sweet, 
And beg thou wilt thy tale repeat. 



203 



O Lady Fair and Debonair. 



Ah ! Arctic Death with sudden breath 
Hath touched thy bud — Ehzabeth ? 
Then, let her he, nor vainly sigh ; 
We, all of us — were born to die : 
But look to Him of Nazareth ! 
As marble cold, of marble mould 
Is she whom thou dost vainly fold 
Now to thy breast : but, being blest, 
I pr'ythee, lady, let her rest ! 



"Iffii^^^ 




204 



BUNKER HILL, 1885. 

A RONDEL. 

Ten years ago a boy reclined 

Where Warren won his fatal blow, 

And sung what passed within his mind 
Ten years ago : 

While idly in the soft June wind, 
The palm and pine rocked to and fro, 
And spake to eyes that were not blind 

Of a defeated South, resigned 

To meet in peace her old time foe. 

And of a conquering North, but kind, 
Ten years ago. 



I wrote some verses on the occasion above referred to— June 17th, 1875,— the 
one hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Bunker Hill. The Palmetto and the 
Pine were planted side by side on the hill.— G. F. C. June 17th, 1885. 



205 



HOPES AND FEARS. 

A RONDEL. 

With hopes and fears the gods still try us 
Each and all through the winding years : 

The past is past, and the morrows defy us 
With hopes and fears. 

Naught that is stable and sure appears : 
We reach for power — 'tis sure to fly us, — 
And the oftener still as the churchyard nears. 

We reach for rest, while the world wheels by us 
And leaves us each in our vale of tears, 

Till the green sod covers and naught comes nigh us 
With hopes and fears. 

June 17th, 1885. 



206 



OH, NEVER MAY THE SHADOW OF THE 
PAST. 



To- 



Oh, never may the shadow of the Past 
Upon thy path fall grimly : never may 

Thy summer sun be shrouded and o'ercast : 
May peace be ever with thee on thy way ! 

And if a thought shall come to thee at last 
Of him who loved thee in his better day, 

Kind be that thought, and void of all regret, 

For he who loved, if living, loves thee yet. 



207 



AS SOME SWIFT STAR. 



To- 



As some swift star that through the azure sHps, 

Led by a secret, passionate desire, 
Forever moving in her bright elHpse 

With eager pinion towards the central fire 
Thy course hath been ! and through the upcoming years 

I hold no doubt that it will be the same, — 

Unto the morning-light of noble fame. 
And this it is that most to me endears 

Thy song ; for thou dost cherish still the pure, 
The true — the wise. In every noble line 
I see the beauty of thy large design, 

And feel, sweet singer, thy reward is sure : 
So, all delighted, watch each flight of thine. 

And wait to see the praise thou wilt secure ! 



208 



We thought them and called them and held them "Our 
boys" — they are men : 
They have stood at the lip of the cannon and felt its 
hot breath : 
They have heard of the hiss of the ball, and again and 
again 
They have looked in the face of death. 

We sent them away to the battle with many a sigh, 
With many a tremor of heart, and with many a tear; 

And, now that the day is their own, let each shadow go 
by,- . • 

And welcome them home with a cheer ! 



"Who served in the North- West rebellion — 1885. 



209 



'^ Our Boys.'' 



With the flaunting of flags, and the ringing of bells, and 
the sound 
Of the trumpet and cannon, whose voice they have 
heard in the fight, 
Let us show we are proud of our boj's who all read}' 
were found 
To battle like men for the right. 

So welcome them back to their mothers, and sweethearts, 
and wives ; 
And remember forever and ever, whatever befal, 
That in perilous moments they gallantl}' perilled their 
lives, — 
And honor them each one and all ! 




ERE THE MOON THAT WANES. 

Ere the moon that wanes to-night again shall largen, 

Ere the sun that sets to-night shall set again, 
You and I may be beyond the bound and margin 

Of the death and doubt that makes the death a pain. 
For, albeit Time's wheels move slow, 

Time's wheels move steadily still ; 
And when they go, we go, 

And when they pause, we will. 



You may reap a golden harvest — I ma}' reap less ; 

I may wear a motley mantle, you a crown : 
But I feel unto the valiant and the sleepless 

Meet reward the powers above us will cast down. 
To Him who watched by day, 

And watches all night through. 
Will come a perfect pay — 
Rich reckoning and true. 



Ere the Moon that Wanes. 



He who knew what weariness and want and woe meant, 
He who pillowed Earth's sad head upon His breast, — 
He who bore that one unutterable moment 

When the burden of her sorrow on Him pressed : — 
To Him, we deem, was given, 

For answer to His love. 
All things on earth — in heaven, 
All love below — above. 

Fear no loss ! Although the shadows close and thicken, 

Just beyond the shadow surely lies the light : 
If it be not so, we are, at best, but stricken 

Back, who were brought forth of Night, again to night. 
Fear nothing — nought is lost ! 

Life, freedom, love, and truth 
From sphere to sphere are tost : — 
Here have they but their youth ! 



212 



THEY SAY I SING TOO SAD A STRAIN. 

They say I sing too sad a strain, 

And question of the reason why : 

I know not, — but it seems that I 
Sang gaily once : I may again 

If that which makes me sad goes by. 
There is a mystery of jo}^ 

In each and ever}^ woodbird's trill ; 
The song of man, the song of boy 

Have more of loss and ill. 

The song of man, the song of boy 

Have more of pain ; though, it may be, 
'Twas but some trifling, slight annoy, 

It leaves a sadness in his strain — 
A darkness in his every song ; 
Just as the cloud in yon inane — 

An aery nothing seemingly — 
Leaves, as it floats above, a long 

Dark line of shadow on the sea. 



213 



TO JOHN CARRUTHERS, ESQ., GLENVALE. 



Oh, I have heard of welcomes, yes ! 

Of highland ones and others ; 
But none of them surpass, I guess. 
In pure and simple heartiness, 

A welcome b}^ Carriitliers. 



LORD BYRON. 

On hearing it averred that the works of Byron were 
too immoral to be read, and that, for that reason, all 
memory of the poet should quickly perish. 

I think your judgment incorrect : 

For he, though sometimes not too moral, 

Like Caesar hides his sole* defect 
With an immortal laurel. 



^Cffisar's SOLE defect was a crown defect — he was bald ; so he covered 
his head with laurels. — G. F. C. 



215 



WITH ALL MY SINGING. 

With all my singing, I can never sing 

A gay, glad song — an honest song of mirth : 

In vain my fingers seek some tender string 

Whose voice would catch the dainty ear of earth. 

Why is it so ? Because the fount and spring 
Of all my song was sorrow ; it had birth 

In gloom, and desolation, and dark hours, — 

'Twas not the offspring of the happy flowers. 



216 




TO CHARLEY. 

Hast thou the poet-gift ? Thou hast, 

golden-tongued and hearted Greek ! 
To find thy prototype, I seek 

Far down along the shadowy Past, 

Where half-gods and whole poets speak 

Wit, song, and eloquence divine — 
Where are they in the list of names ? 

1 halt at his of many fames, 
And boldly call thee, brother mine, 

A Sheridan — without his shames ! 



217 



TO MY DAUGHTER JESSIE. 
On her first birthday. 

My Httle gem ! — a dearer gem 

Than ever flashed since Adam's fall, 

Or so to me than all of them, — • 
Yea, more to each than all. 

Save one, my mother's, 'neath the sky 
No lovelier lip hath ever smiled ; 

Nor ever beamed a kindlier eye 
Than that of thine, my child ! 



Kingston, July 8th, 1885. 



218 




THE DAYS OF LONG AGO. 

A SONG. 

Bring back, O Time ! bring back to me 

The days I once did know, 
The dear old days that used to be — • 

The days of long ago ! 

Bring back the hopes that failed to last. 

The fears that failed not so : 
Bring back, bring back the golden past — 

The days of long ago ! 

Bring back the loves I won and lost 
Through Love's inconstant flow ; 

Bring back, bring back, at any cost, 
The days of long ago ! 



219 



The Days of Long Ago. 



Bring back once more the fruit and flower, 

The early morning glow, 
And give me for a single hour 

The days of long ago. 

O Autocrat divine and strong ! — 
For men have called thee so, — 

Bring back with summer and with song. 
The days of long ago. 

Vain, vain ! I know it — my request ; 

They come not once they go 
However bright, however blest — 

The days of long ago. 




220 



BECA USE ! 

"O woman, in our hours of ease," 

As Scott has somewhere said or sung, 

So very difficult to please. 

So sweet of lip, so swift of tongue, 
I've often tried, since I was young 

And danced you darlings on my knees. 
To find out why you have not kept 

From Time's rapacious, greedy jaws 
A reason for your whims, except 

That old moth-eaten one — "Because !" 

Why is it ? Hath there never been 

A time in all the tides of Time 
When female tongue or female pen 
In rhymed prose or prosed rhyme 

Hath given an utterance more sublime 
And pleasant to the ears of men ? 
In all the ages that have slipped 

Since that old ark of Noah's was, 
Hath never dear young woman lipped 

A better reason than — "Because!" ? 



Because ! 



Not one! The summers come and go, 

The ages dwindle to a span, 
And woman sweet can only throw 

These self-same s^dlables at man. 

Yea, from Beersheba unto Dan, — 
While men, the brutes ! have reasons plus 

For finding faults, or forging flaws, — 
The Fates have shackled woman thus 

To mild, monotonous — "Because!" 

And as it was and is, it will 

Be ever till the 3'ears grow pale 
And die with very age ; until 

There is nor female left nor male ; 

Until the sun himself shall fail : 
For this is woman's last resort, 

Parenthesis, and saving clause. 
And period still in sense or sport, 

Her exclamation point — "Because !" 

Kingston, — '83. 



^'■ >=^ t=^:^ 



222 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 

There is a land where rolls along 
A thousand gilded streams, 

The half enchanted son of song 
Names it the land of dreams. 

Sweet warblers hang on every bow, 
And softened twilight gleams 

Eternal o'er the mountain's brow 
In this dear land of dreams. 

With amber drops the luscious vine 
Bows to the foliaged ground, 

And myriad warblers from the pine 
Send harmony around. 



223 



TJie Land of Dreams. 



With argent tint its limpid lakes 
Embrace the silver streams : 

Reality alone awakes 

Ye from that land of dreams ! 

And wandering through the lofty halls 

In upper realms of air, 
Where not a footstep's echo falls 

To break the stillness there, 

I met a being fair as day, 

Her eyes like night, I ween, — 

A sweet, fair angel gone astray, — 
My own, loved, lost Ellene. 




224 



Y,solr^. 



Our love and our hate ! This Hfe of ours,- 

Whatever Hfe's law above, — 
Is woven of thorns of hate, and flowers 

And sharpest thorns of love : 

And all of our webs of romance or truth 
Take their color and tone from these ; 

And as it is now in the world's wild youth 
It shall be through the centuries. 



225 



Ysolte. 



Well, I am young and the world is wide, 

And I have gold enough and to spare, 
And I could buy, if I would, a bride 

To give me, perchance, a son and heir ; 
But single my heart is, and I will abide 
As single, and float on xwy own gulf-tide 

Of desire, now here, now there, 
Wherever my silver shallop may ride 

And my sails of silver bear, — 
Until I drift on the unknown shore, 
And beach my boat to roam no more. 

How easily men are caught with chaff ! 
An ankle, an eye, or a light-lipt laugh. 

And down they go on their knees. 
Was I caught myself? Oh, not In' half! 

No, thank you, if you please. 
I will be caught ? No, thank you, again ! 

I sound myself on all these things. 
And find I am not like the most of men 

To be led in leading strings. 
No painted, or pretty, or perilous girl 

Shall put my soul in pain ; 

226 



Ysolte. 



No xnhy lips o'er teeth of pearl, 
Gazelle-like eye, or wind-kist curl 
Shall break my heart in twain. 

Oh, I do laugh to see men cringe 

Before some delicate, daint}^ doll, — 
Some mass of foolishness, fuss, and fringe, 

Some delicate — nothing at all. 
To see men fawn and flatter and lie — 

At the feet of these dolls, I mean, — and swear 
That they for sake of them would die. 

They might die did they dare : 
For men in love are fools — or nigh. 

Though cap nor bells they wear. 
To see them, knowing so well man's mind, 

And knowing so well that woman's power 

Is that of beauty, but of an hour ; 
And knowing well of womankind, — 

To see them and hear — oh, I do laugh ! 

Why are they crows to be caught with chaff. 



227 



Ysolte. 



Oh, I do weep to see men creep 

Through mire, and dirt, and deadly shame, 
To drag the gold from its seon -sleep 

Or to snatch a kiss from Fame. 
Can place or power avail to keep 

Star-clear a tarnished name ? 
Well, what of this ? But this, no more : 

For dunces we need not rake the schools ; 
For the most of men — 'twas said before — 

Are arrant fools — are arrant fools. 

And now that my say is said of men, 

I leave them alone, and nothing loth; 
Let them sink to themselves, if they will, again, 

To their love and life — I leave them to both. 
For I am young and the world is wide. 

And I have gold enough and to spare, 
And I could buy, if I would, a bride 

To give me, perchance, a son and heir ; 
But single my heart is, and I will abide 
As single, and float on my own gulf-tide 

Of desire, now here, now there, — 



228 



Ysolte. 



Wherever my shallop of silver may ride 

And my sails of silver bear, — 
Until I drift on the unknown shore 
And beach my bark to launch no more ! 

Here shall I end my days ! 

No longer Ishmael-like I roam. 
*Here, where the natural streamlet plays, 

Here, where the innocuous cattle graze, 
Where other foot but seldom strays 

Than mine, I find a home. 
Yea, on this eminent mountain's breast 

Where calm winds meet : 
The sun-kist river seeming blest, 
Wrapt in perpetual peace and rest, 

Low-lying at my feet, 
Dividing me from man and mart 

And wrong and turmoil consequent 
And all of ill, at length my heart 

Is well content, is well content. 



229 



Ysolte. 



Companionship ? Enough for me 

My books and birds and flowers ! if bhss 
In any place more perfect is, 

In any place can any be 
More innocent than this ? 

I have no fear of present wrong ; 
I cannot dream of future ill, — 
Against the demon of regret 
My pride must prove an amulet : — 
With these as dear companions still, — 
The wood-bird with his happy song, 
The columbine and daffodil, 
And these book friends unchangeable 
Beside me all day long. 

No, I may sleep and wake each morn 

To say — To-day no city strife 
Shall shake my peace, or press a tliorn 

Into the flesh of life ! 



230 



Ysolte. 



It seems as if a change 

Had come across the earth, — 
A something sweet and strange : 

Gone is the gloom and gone the dearth 

Of sunshine and soft air and mirth, — 
I feel as if again a boy ; 

Departed is my old annoy, 
And all is life and peace and joy 

Befitting second birth. 
I have been born again ; 

And in my new-found mood 
I say that beasts and birds and men, 

All things that are or that have been. 
Are good — are very good. 

But will it, can it last— 

This life that is so sweet ? — 
Where all the past is past 

And buried 'neath my feet ? 
Can it be as a shadow cast — 

Not real, but a cheat ? 



231 



Ysolte. 



I think not. It is said, 

When one is born anew 
That all the former life is fled 

And that then present true. 

Is't substance, or a sham ? 

I know the stars shine brighter 
Than they before had shone : 
The air is warm and calm : 
I know my heart is lighter, — 
Its heaviness is gone: 
I do not lean on broken reed, — 
This is a newer life indeed. 

And so, since I am sure 

This new world is secure, 
I, who have never tried to sing 

Since in that old world I was young. 
Since that first youth was in its spring, 
Will strike again a merry string 

And sing as I have sung : — 



232 



Ysolte. 



Light, light, light ! 

The morning is breaking at last : 
The darkness is dead, and the night — 

The desolate night is past. 

Joy, joy, joy ! 

The shadow that haunted me so, — 
That clouded the life of the boy 

And the life of the man, may go. 

Earth, earth, earth 

Swings round to a heart-prompted tune ; 
The day is delivered of mirth, — 

December is genial as June. 

Love, love, love 

Hath broken the ancient spell : 
There is beauty below and about and above. 

And the soul that was sick is well. 

Fear, fear, fear 

Of a future that never may be ? 
No ! the future is tJiere, the present is liere, 

And that is enough for me ! 



233 



Ysolte. 



There is a stranger in the place, 

A stranger who no doubt looks down, 
Scorn on his lip and ashy face. 

Upon the God-made country clown. 

And he is stopping there in town : 
And he has seen the one I love : 

And he wall love her — that I know, 

A voice within me tells me so. 
But, sooth, I swear by the stars above, 

By the tides at my feet that ebb and flow, 

Whatever may come, whatever may go, 
He shall not harm my harmless dove. 

I swear he shall not harm her ! still, 
Her lord shall be her own sweet will. 
And if her own sweet will shall put 

My love aside, I shall but say — 
This trampling true love 'neath her foot 

For false, is only woman's way. 

His face is lined and worn, although 
'Tis fashioned fairly and might pass — 

A female mirror flatters so — 
At muster in a lady's glass : 



234 



Ysolte. 



But his hand is as a lady's fair, 
His foot is as his hand is — small ; 
So should you take them all in all 

They would be quite a pretty pair. 

The prowling fox has found his prey,— 
An easy prey, an easy prize : 

So easy that some people say 
It was a willing sacrifice. 

But I say neither yea nor nay, 
Not having other people's eyes. 

He angled and she took the bait. 

Perchance he used a noble line 
And golden hook, — at any rate 

He has no reason to repine : 
If I have reason, ' Such is fate !' 

I say, or — ' Such is fate of mine !' 

Love is the serf of Mammon : we. 

Being serfs of love, are doubly slaves. 
Were it not better, then, to flee 



235 



Ysolte. 



From both and to our graves,^ 
Those sanctuaries where neither can 
Force homage from the knee of man ? 

The heart is most deceitful — truly so ! 

Late when I dreamed I dreamed not I did dream 
And things that seemed to seem not did but seem 

And what I knew I knew I did not know. 
'Twas in a vision that upon the stream 
I cast my lotos-leaf, and it did glide 
Adown it till I thought 'twould stem the tide : 

But far beyond my sight it gathered weight, 

And sank at last — o'erburdened with my fate ! 

I am on earth once more ! 

My hope, by one foul breath. 
Is driven upon an iron shore, — 
The mad, wild waters whelm it o'er 

And deed it unto death. 
I am most bitterly alone ! 

The stars are distant, dim and cold : 

This is the old life o'er — the old ! 
Where is the new that I have known ? 



236 



Ysolh 



They are together much of late, 

They passed me by to-day: 
I was standing there at my gate : 

He nodded a cloudy brow — not ill, 
She shot me a smile as they rode away 

To the house beyond the hill : 
I would hate him could I hate, — 

If I learn to hate, I will. 

And yet, why hate him ? He 

Who falls by woman's wile 
Should only have pity from me : 

I will pity him — after awhile, 
When she from her heart and love 

Hath cast him aside and out 
Like a toy she is wearied of, 
Or flung him away like a glove 

Torn or soiled at a rout. 

I will afar, and leave behind 
This love as fickle as the wind, — 
Will seek a newer solitude ; 



237 



Ysolte. 



At once away, for to my mind 

There is no good, there is no good 

In anything of womankind. 

I will away from haunts of men 
To live the old life o'er and o'er, 
To live the life I lived before. 

To be, — but I will say no more, — 
To be again— what I have been ! 

Be what I have been ? No ! 

The gates of the Past are closed ; 

And no one, even if so disposed, 
Behind those gates can go : — 
Those gates— precipitous and steep — 

They never rest ajar ; 
And only memory can sweep 

Over them, whil'st their guardians are 
Bound in the cords of sleep. 

And dreaming softly in their star. 

What ! Go to what I have been ? to 
The darkness and the gloom 
Of the cold, voiceless, soulless tomb, 

238 



Y so lie. 



Where love-light moves not through, 
From all that I of late did know 
To that old life — I cannot go ! 

He who hath sometime scanned 

The stars that gem the sky, 
The sea and lovely land, — 

All beauties that delight the eye, 
All things that He hath planned 

Or here below or there on high. 
And then hath lost his sight. 

Hath fuller cup of bitterness 

To quaff than he would ever guess 
Whose eye hath never seen the light. 

And, I, — I who have sometime stepped 

Upon the paths of Paradise, 
Where odorous opening roses crept 

Up palms whose tops were in the skies, 
Where waves of melody were swept 

Full tide from throats of birds who kept 

No reckoning of their song, nor slept, 
But made the day and happy night 

In perfect circles of delight, — 

239 



Ysolte. 



How can I ever find again 
A pleasure in the desert wide 
Where all the springs of life are dried, 

Where all the nightingales are men 
Who ever sing in songs of woe ? 

How can I close my ears and eyes ? 
To that old world how can I go, 

Nor sigh for sights and melodies 
That there I may not know ? 

It would not happen as it did, 

It would not have been but for him ! 
Did not my better self forbid. 
It may be there is something hid 

Which I could tell him that would dim- 
But, no ! — 'tis little to my mind 

To undermine her woman-whim ; 
Besides, I will not be unkind. 

I will forgive, perchance forget ; 

To time and tide leave all the rest ; 
She may find life is bitter yet, 

Ay, — find it bitter on his breast 

240 



Ysolte. 



Without a sign from me, or threat ; 
For hfe is bitter — at the best ! 



Oh, that we had not met to part 

As we are parted now, — 
The stain of anger on each heart, 

Of anger on each brow ! 

Would that the love which shone so bright 

Had killed me with its blaze ; 
Ere I had seen it robed in night, 

And robb'd of all its rays ! 

Would that the hours so fleet and fair 

Had never come to me ! — 
Ere I had known that once the}' were. 

That they no more can be. 

Would I had slept the dreamless sleep. 

Ere I had come to know 
That Love may sow in joy, j^et reap 

A harvest wild with woe ! 



'6 241 



Ysolte. 



Would love had faded ere my birth 
Or blossomed on my tomb : 

Nor ever mocked my youth with mirth, 
To curse my age with gloom ! 

And oh, that we had never met 
And dreamed a dream of bliss. 

To wake again to cold regret, 
To wake again to — this ! 



Where often I have found relief, 

I went to seek for peace to-day, — 
A temporal balm for temporal grief : 
Amid fair Nature's solitudes, 
Within the ivy-fretted woods, 
I found it in a novel way. 

Upon the moss beside a spring 
Whose limpid waves go spattering 

Adown the ancient rocks and gray, 

As often I had lain I lay 



242 



Ysolte. 



When to my hand came wandering — 

The wind had tost it there in play — 
A vagrant scroll bound by a ring, 

A golden circlet old and thin. 
I seized it, and half jestingly 

Spake to it, opening, "Let me see 
What omen may be here for me !" 

And this is what I read therein : — 

What though, my brother, to-day be drear 

And dark and sad ? 
To-morrow, to-morrow will soon be here — 

Perchance to make thee glad. 

Sorrow and heaviness — these are things 

That come to men : 
They come to the commons, they come to kings, 

They come to go again. 

Why should a season of bitterness bear 

Thee down to dust ? 
To-day may be foul yet to-morrow be fair ; 

Trust in to-morrow — trust ! 



243 



Ysolte. 



And if to-morrow be darker yet 

With pain and ill, 
Though the heart be dry and the eyehds wet, 

Trust in to-morrow still ! 

It was enough, — a hopeful song ! 

Had some good genius sent it here, 
Borne on the kindly winds along 

Inscribed with promise of good cheer 

For some dear future day or year ? 
I may be right, or may be wrong ; 

But thus I will interpret what 

The day and accident have brought : 
Perhaps there is a generous Fate, 

A generous Fate ! but time will tell 

If all be ill or all be well, — 
And, for the present — I can wait. 

Though she be false as coquette's kiss, 
From this sweet mood I must not stir 
In which Love, as interpreter. 

Reads all the auguries for bliss ; 

But bring myself to chime with this, — 
'T7S well, if all be well luiih her. 



244 



Ysolte. 



Yes, yes ! O Love — lost Love of mine ! 

If thou wert with me now to-day 
And peace and happiness were thine, 

Though sad my soul I still would say : 

If thou art happy, all is well ! 

I care not what remains to me ; 
Though nought but ill my stars foretell, 

'Tis well, so all is well with thee ! 

Affection's flower may fade and fall; 

Life's fairest promises may flee : 
I hold it recompense for all 

To know that all is well with thee. 

The star of faith may quit my sk)^ 
The compass fail me on Life's sea : 

My bark may wreck, but what reck I 
'Tis well, so all is well with thee ! 

Though hope and all I hold be vain, 
'Twill shorten still, where'er I be, 

My hour of bitterness and pain 

To know that all is well with thee ! 



245 



YsoUe. 



As out of elemental motion life 

Comes forth to man and health and strength, 

Out of the war of words at length, 
Out of the stir and storm and strife 

Comes forth a sterling hope to me — 

A hope of better days to be. 

Into the field comes gallant Truth, 

In mail arrayed and armed with flame, 
To champion a tottering fame 

That else were martyred in its youth. 

Now, clear the lists ! an even start ! 

Spur, Slander — Truth ! They meet nor part. 
Now, Sword, be true as God is just ! 

As God is great be great, O Heart ! 
Ah ! Slander smitten smites the dust : 

The knight of Truth is o'er his head : — 

The liar and the lie are dead ! 

Now hear the end of all the play ! — 
I hold her fair and firm and true 
To eyesight and to soul-sight, too : 



246 



Vsoite. 



She is the sweetest piece of clay 
God ever sculptured into form ! 

And who on earth shall say me nay, 
If to the wide, wild world I say, 

Until life's storms forever stay, 
I shall defend her from all storm ! 

I hear along the air a wedding bell ; 
Say, heart of mine ! how is it ? 

It is luell ! 




247 



LiYi^ie^ or^ De;^tn. 



Draw the dread curtain and enter in ! — 

In o'er the threshold the miihons have trod : 

Lose but the dust of the balance, and win — 
What a moment ago was the secret of God ! 

September, 1885. 



249 



AN ANSWER. 

"Can it be good to die ?" you question, friend ; 

"Can it be good to die, and move along 
Still circling round and round, unknowing end, 

Still circling round and round amid the throng 
Of golden orbs attended by their moons — 

To catch the intonation of their song 
As on they flash, and scatter nights, and noons. 

To worlds like ours, where things like us belong ?' 

To me 'tis idle saying, "He is dead." 

Or, "Now he sleepeth and shall wake no more ; 
The little flickering, fluttering life is fled. 

Forever fled, and all that icas is o'er." 
I have a faith — that life and death are one, 

That each depends upon the self-same thread. 
And that the seen and unseen rivers run 

To one calm sea, from one clear fountain head. 



250 



An Ansiuer. 



I have a faith — that man's most potent mind 

May cross the willow- shaded stream nor sink ; 
I have a faith — when he has left behind 

His earthly vesture on the river's brink, 
When all his little fears are torn away, 

His soul may beat a pathway through the tide, 
And, disencumbered of its coward-clay, 

Emerge immortal on the sunnier side. 

So, say : — It must be good to die, my friend ! 

It must be good and more than good, I deem ; 
'Tis all the replication I may send — 

For deeper swimming seek a deeper stream. 
It must be good or reason is a cheat, 

It must be good or life is all a lie. 
It must be good and more than living sweet, 

It must be good — or man would never die. 

Boston, April, 1878. 



251 



RE ST.'' 

Of that deep sorrow that befel 

Even yet I cannot calmly speak, — 

When we who knew and loved him well, 
And saw the roses on his cheek 

Fade week by week. 

Stood by his bed, and kn€w thai One, 
Unseen, beside us held a place, " J" ■ 

And waited but for set of sun 
To lay cold hand upon his face 

And steal its grace : 



In memoriam of Charles Pritchett.— Died June loth, 1874. 



252 



Rcsf. 



And knew that One but waited near 
To seal the eloquent, loving lips ; 

To rob the spirit of its dear 

Earth robe, — from heart to finger-tips 
To make eclipse. 

And knew the all that we had need 
To know — that God had need of him : 

And some there seemed to see, indeed, 
The sweet fair forms of seraphim 

Winged, moving dim 

About the couch whereon he lay 
Who yesterday was in the bloom 

Of youth and strength,— but yesterday ! — 
And round about the darkened room, 

And through the gloom. 



253 



Rest. 



I scarce can calmly speak, though years 
Have touched me since, of him and all 

The alternating hopes and fears 

That swayed us, till the golden ball 
Of day did fall : 

And Death and Night, his sister, met 

And came together to the bed ; 
Ah ! Love was vain as amulet 

To drive the harpies from his head. 
Or they had fled. 

They came — twin Night and Death — they came. 
And on his veins their fingers prest. 

And calmed the blood that was as flame, 
And stilled the beating of his breast, 

And gave him rest ! 



254 



SHELLEY. 



"Dust unto dust ?" No, spirit unto spirit 
For thee, beloved ! for thou wert all fire, 
All luminous flame, all passionate desire. 

All things- that mighty beings do inherit, 
All things that mighty beings do require. 

"Dust unto dust ?" Ah, no ! Thou did'st respire 
In such a high and hoi}' atmosphere. 
Where clouds are not, but calms, and all things clear, — 

Not one like ours, but purer far and higher, — 

Thou did'st not know of dust. How "dust to dust" 
then here ? 



255 



Shelley 



Spirit to spirit, be it ! Thou wert born 

An heir apparent to the throne of mind. 

It lessens not thy right that some were bhnd, 
And looked on thee and fixt a lip of scorn, 

And threw on thee the venom of their kind : 
Thou wert a brother to the sun and wind, 

And it is meet that thou art of them now. 

I see thee standing, with thy godlike brow 
High-arched and star-lit, upwardly inclined. 
While at thy feet tlie singers of sweet song do bow. 

III. 

For spirits are not as men : these did not know 
An angel had been with them on tlie earth, — 
A singer who had caused a glorious birth 

Of glorious after-singers here below, — 

Where much was sung and little sung of worth. 

I see the stars about thee as a girth, — 

The moon in splendor standing by thy side, 
And lesser moons that evermore do glide 

About her circling, making songs of mirth, — 

And o'er thy head supreme Apollo in his pride, — 

256 



Shelley 



Pleased with the homage that his children give thee, 
Remembering it as /n's, even as thou art ; 
Knowing thy heart a portion of his heart, 

And spreading forth his breast as to receive thee — 
Twin soul of his, that had been rent apart. 

I leave to marts the language of the mart. 
Ashes to ashes say above the crust 
Of him who was but ashes, — it is just ! 

But over thee as homeward thou did'st start, 

Spirit to spirit was true, and not "dust unto dust !" 

March 21st, 1883. 




17 



257 



DEAD ! 

Dead ! And the north wind whistles o'er the place 
Where they have left her in her youth and bloom, 
The snow of winter heaped above her face, 
So fairly spread it scarcely leaves a trace 
Even of her tomb ! 

Dead ! And she leaned to life with such a love 

That death seemed more than hateful to her eye ; 
For though she never found a doubt to move 
Or shake her faith in better things above, 
'Twas hard to die ! 



258 



UNTIMELY:'- 

Untimely ! So we say, and sigh. 

Is any hour so then for rest ! 
Is any hour so then to die, 

When dying is being blest ? 

Not one ! And though our dead may reach 
No hand to us, nor come and tell, 

We have luithin a voice whose speech 
For death is ever — all is well ! 

This voice within, and all without 

Confirming it, affirming still 
That past this ill, and death, and doubt, 

There is nor doubt, nor death, nor ill. 



'In Memoriam of Annie Simpson Stewart, niece ot the author.— C. J. C. 



259 



Uiitiniely. 



So wish her not from her repose, 

And ask her not ! — though that were vain 
As 'twere to ask a full blown rose 

To close and be a bud again. 

And mourn not ! She, where nothing mars 
The perfect rest, the perfect good, 

Beyond the circle of the stars, 
Escaping nether womanhood, 

With all the evils that attend,— 
Uncertain fortune, much annoy, 

Attains at once the endless end — 

The peace, the palm, the calm, the joy. 

Ay, there ! beyond the burning track 
Of morn, where angel pinions stir, 

She waits for us, — she comes not back, — 
She waits for us, — n^e po to her ! 



260 



-'■^ ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 

Dear boy ! yea, dear as if thy years 
Were man}-, thou art gone to rest 

And with the happy in the spheres 
Ahotted to the blest. 

We miss thee sadly, yet, perchance, 

'Tis well that thus our dream should lose 

Its glory-mantle of romance. 
And all its gorgeous hues. 

For, though our cup, being broken, holds 
No more for us hope's holy wine. 

We know that the Omnific folds 
Thee to his heart divine. 



"'Alfred, infant son of Lt. Col, McLelland Moore, and nephew of the author. 
C. J. C. 

261 



On the Death of a Child. 



We read fair fortune for thee, read 
Enough of days and nights of joy, 

With tropic suns and moons which shed 
A lustre o'er thee, boy ! 

We built for thee our castles fair, 
Proud, golden-turreted, sublime. 

By streams which ran through pastures rare 
In our green island — Time. 

But whil'st we read, and built, and plann'd. 
An angel came and wooed thee hence 

And won thee from our lower land 
To God's high eminence ! 




262 



IN MEM OKI AM. 

" Lieut, -Col. MacLelland Moore," one of the 
first commissioned officers appointed by Governor And- 
rew for active service in the Rebelhon. 
****** 

His name was a famihar one in old time mihtary cir- 
cles, with which his connection began thirty years ago 
(1852) as captain of the American Artillery, at the age 
of sixteen. At the outbreak of the Rebellion he went 
into service for the Union as Captain of Co. E in the 
"Old Eleventh"; subsequently he was promoted and 
transferred to the Twenty-Eighth Massachusetts as its 
Lieutenant Colonel. 

Of the value of his services the war records furnish 
due testimony, and broken health and long 3'ears of 
suffering bear evidences of his sacrifices. Possessing 
besides his sterling military qualities, an instinctive 
taste for science and literature, he blended with the 
love of dut}' the graces of a genial spirit." — Bostoyi 
journal. 



*The author's brother-in-law, — C. J. C. 
263 



In Meinoriam. 



O brother ! dust and ashes ! dust 
Upon the tongue so sweet in song, 

Upon the hps so true, and just, 

And cunning to denounce the wrong 
And ashes in the hands so strong, 

And swift to war it for the right ; — 
And ashes on the heart so long 

A thing of love, and life, and light ! 



And can it be that he is dead 

Beside that river that I know ? 
And is there heaped upon his head 

The burthen of the New Time's snow ? 

And shall the seasons come and go. 
And mellow moons still wax and wane, 

And birds still sing, and blossoms blow, 
And we desire his voice in vain ? 



264 



In Meiuoriam. 



And must we mingle with the crowd, 

While close the nights, and come the days, 
And dream of one no more allowed 

To walk beside us in our ways ; 

Or only look with upward gaze, 
And hope beyond the mystic end 

To meet once more, without amaze, 
The husband, brother, father, friend ? 



Yea, dreams of what did once befall. 
However dim the dreams, or old. 

And hopes of what may be — are all 
These mortal hands of ours may hold. 
We have no more ; the tale is told ; 

The wondrous web of life is spun ; 
I look aloft — the stars are cold. 
But in the East I see the sun ! 



265 



In Memoriam. 



And from the utmost heights I hear — 
Sheer down the waste of waveless sea, — 

A voice that whispers in my ear 
That all that still is mist to me 
Is clear as noon to him, that he 

May now, where cloud nor darkness mars, 
With eye that longed to see them — see 

The solemn secrets of the stars ! 

VI. 

So, let him sleep ! The stir, the strife. 

The toil, the turmoil all are o'er ; 
He will not wake, nor leap to life. 

At sabre-clash, or cannon roar ; 

He takes the battlefield no more. 
Nor wakes at any dawn of day. 

But, with his comrades passed before, 
Waits the diviner Reveille ! 

January 24th, 1884. 

266 




DEA TH/' 

Dear friend, I know this world is kin, 
And all of hate is but a breath : 

We all are friends, made perfect in 
Our near relationship by death. 

And so, although it was not mine 
To meet thee in thy walk below. 

Or know of thee till feet of thine 

Were on the hills no man can know ; 

For friendship's sake I fain would bring 
A flower, or two, to thee to' prove 

That memory lives, that death's sharp sting 
Hath still an antidote in love. 



*In memoriam ot Maggie Meagher. 



267 



Death. 



Devoure'd by his desire of her 

The king, who ever loved her best, 
Hath stilled the billowing of her breast, 

Hath kissed her so no pulse doth stir, 
But all of lier doth lie at rest. 

Then, knowing she may never now 
Wish any else, he takes his leave. 
And little recks how they may grieve 

Who see the splendor of her brow 

Gleam ghastly through the gathering eve ; 

Who see her lying pale, supine, 

With wild red roses twined with fair 
About her throat, and in her hair. 

And on her bosom, — all divine 
If but a little life were there. 

Nor heeds he aught the sunless glooms 
And fair forms folded from the light 
In close graves crowded far from sight 

In lone lands dedicate to tombs 

And scarce to starbeams known at night ; 

268 



Death. 



But goes his way ; and as he goes 

Leaves that we hold as sorrow here, — 
The pain of parting and the tear. 

The broken hly and the rose 

Down fallen with the fallen year. 

Cold king, most lone and absolute ! 

What maid would be desired of thee ? 

From tliy embrace who would not flee ? 
What though a monarch, being mute 

In love of thine what love could be ? 

Can any good be silent so ? 

Be dumb, and do its work and pass 

Swift as an image in a glass ? 
Ah, all of good that we can know 

Thus comes to us, and leaves, alas ! 

While we, who have no key to ope 
Death's cabinet of m3'steries, 
Can only vainly strain our e3'es. 
And hold to heaven and that high hope 
That death is good in any guise ! 

* * * * 

269 



Death. 



And if but slight to thee appear 

The tribute brought, now that thine eyes 
May view through all the eternal year 

The fairer flowers of Paradise, — 

If dim and all unworthy look 
The offering, yet remember well 

We do not sleep by Eden's brook. 
Or dream on beds of Asphodel : 

So only bring the flowers that bloom 
Beside us, fresh enough and fair ; 

Enough to wither on thy tomb : 

And with our hearts — behold them there ! 




270 



A YEAR AFTER. 



A SONNET. 



Who of US thought upon that gay May night, — 

That night of joy, and jolHty, and cheer, — 

That two, within the circle of a year. 
Two of our number should have passed from sight — 

Passed from this present to another sphere, — 
Passed through death's darkness out into life's light ? 
Not one of us now living. Happy all, 

We wished not morn, nor sighed for yesterday : 
We gave no thought to funeral pomp or pall, 

Or gnawing worm, or darkness, or decay. 
Yet are they gone : and we, who yet remain. 

Grasp but this lesson : it is ever thus, — 
Though pleasure drown awhile all thought of pain. 
Though we forget of death, yet Death forgets not us. 

Boston. 



271 



IN MEMORIAM^ 



On many a heart a shadow falls, 
Where lay a line of light of yore, 

For here, within the College walls, 
x\nd there, beyond the College door, 
A friend — that time shall not restore, 

Is missing — leaving not a trace — 
Is missing, and forever more 

Is missing from his wonted place ! 



And as the sad word onward slips 

From hall to hall, from room to room, 

The laughter freezes on our lips, 

And lo ! — we speak of death and doom 
And grief comes in to us and gloom, — 

With swift suggestions of a soul 

That waves at length a perfect plume, 

Or waits — a winner — at the goal ! 



*John C. Macleod, Captain of Queen's Collet;e Football Team. 



272 



In Menioriam. 



And though he only seemed to dwell 
An instant with us, ere the Foe 

Laid hand upon him and he fell, 
Down-smitten by a bitter blow, — 
We knew him ; we were glad to know 

And these shall miss him in the class, 
And those shall miss him as they go 

To meet their rivals on the grass. 



And long his memory shall remain. 

And be amongst us and abide — 
Though he shall not return again 

With any time, or any tide ; 

For dark Death's river is, and wide ; 
And long our eyes shall seek our friend 

Who wanders on the other side, — 
Where we shall find him in the end ! 

Queen's College, February i6th, 1884. 



273 



FROM THE SEA. 



A FRAGMENT. 



A voice comes in with the tide, — 

A voice that I should know ; 
And I fanc}' it that of the dead, who died 

Ah, me ! so long ago. 

With the solemn sigh of the sea 
The voice comes landward in : 

And ever it seems to say to me — 
Death wins not — Life doth win ! 



274 



S^qi^^o. 



What care I for faith of fathers or of brothers ? 

All this written faith is nothing : there is faith. 
Yea, as high as God is high above all others 

Over every precept — over each Thus Saith. 

Oh, there are various arts and man}' 

Held holy by the throng, 
But unto me the round world holds not an}- 

More so than that of song, 
■x- ■*- * * * 

Let us praise the great God with our hearts not our lips. 
With deeds that shall speak, not with simper or sigh ; 

Devotion of soul needs no saddening eclipse, — 

Let us please and be pleased for to-morrow we die ! 



275 




LORD GOD ALMIGHTY. 

Lord God Almighty ! Thou who art 
The sire of all the orbs that roll, — 

The head of each, the hand, the heart. 
The centre and the soul ! 

My Refuge, Rock and dear Desire, 
While ills on ills about me throng, 

Shall I not come to Thee, the Fire 
And Fount of all my song ? 

And as thou did'st from wrath of Saul 
Deliver David, forced to flee, 

So, when in pain to thee / call, 
I know thou'lt succor me. 



276 



Lord God Almighty. 



For thou art not a God afar, 

But ever present, ever nigh, 
And ready still in every star 

To hear thy children's cry. 

Oh, I have sinned and I have strayed 
From Thee, the Shepherd of the flock. 

Have scorned Thy guidance, and have made 
Thy law divine a mock : 

Again and yet again have done 

The wrong, and wandered from the right ; 
Have followed folly with the sun 

From early morn till night. 

But, like the prodigal, my heart- 
Too long undone and desolate — 

Seeks Thine, believing that Thou art 
As good as Thou art great ! 



1883. 



277 




HE IS RISEN ! 

" He is risen ! He is risen !" Hear the universal chorus ; 
Note the number of the nations — hear them now, they 
all rejoice ; 
Lifting to the stars above us, to the sweet stars swim- 
ming o'er us 
One united thankful voice 

That He is risen ! 

He is risen — the Redeemer ! Earth nor Death nor Hell 
could bind Him, 
For His strength was all immortal like His own im- 
mortal love : 
Vainly to the place of burial go the maidens out to find 
Him : 
Ah ! the angels far above 

Know He is risen ! 



278 



He is Risen. 



He is risen ! In his rising ends the world's divinest 
story, — 
One that still shall find an echo while earth eddies 
round the sun ; 
One of sadness wov'n with gladness, one of gloom and 
one of glory, 
One that tells us, All is done ! Earth is won ! 
And — He is risen ! 

He is risen ! He is risen ! Lo, the gentle Gallilean 
Whom they crucified and buried leaves the tomb and 
takes the throne : 
Leaves the cross, and, while the peoples fling the palm 
and raise the paean, 
Reascends and takes His own, — 
For He is risen ! 

Easter Morn, 1885. 




279 



My spring is over, all my summer past : 
The autumn closes, — winter now appears 

And I, a helpless leaf before its blast. 

Am whirled along amid the eternal years 

To realize my hopes — or end my fears. 

September, 1885. 



281 




BEYOND THE UTMOST DOUBTS AND DEEPS. 

Beyond the utmost doubts and deeps 

Where Chaos with her sister sleeps, 
Beyond the crimson and the blue 

Which eye of man hath seen not through, 
Beyond the spaces sounded not. 

There is, I feel, one nameless spot 
Divine as Northern night in June 

With balmy breeze and mellow moon, 
Divine as youth's dear dream of love. 

Divine as any star above, 
As lovely as the day's first beam, 

As holy as the poet's dream, 
As virgin as the garden trod 

By him who walked and talked with God. 



282 



Beyond the Utmost Doubts and Deeps. 



And once it seemed to me I found 

Me in that consecrated ground, — 
Yea, there I moved a visitor, 

And there it was I looked on Her. 
I loved yet dreaded her. She knew 

Me calmly, kindly through and through. 
She knew my virtues — I had few ; 

She knew as well my vices, too. 
She read me as an open book 

And praised or punished with a look, 
And sought and reached me wheresoe'er 

My spirit took me foul or fair, — 
Aye, found me, as the river will. 

Or spring it from the vale or hill, 
The blue, the broad, the boundless' sea 

Where all its aspirations be. 

For this I dreaded her, but then 
I never spake of dread to men : 

But if the}^ questioned me of her 
I called her still my comforter — 

A something more than maid or wife, 
A love that only died with life : — 

283 



Beyond the Utmost Doubts and Deeps. 



And life knows not of death : away 

Beyond the morn of earth and day, 
Beyond its ground, beyond its gyves, 

Life all eternal still survives. 
The snow may cover all the land : 

The rose may wither in your hand : 
The lily shiver when shall fall 

About and o'er it Winter's pall : 
But mark me, — whosoe'er may care,— 

The life that still is life is there ! 

September, 1885. 




284 



TO GOD, THE AUDITOR OF ALL ACCOUNTS. 

To God the Auditor of all accounts 

We shall give up account of all our ill ; 
And though in men's minds to a mountain it amounts 
Who knows but with His imitateless skill 

As recompense 
Adding and footing up sin's bill 
He will find pounds of Good where man writes pence. 
And when I see Him I hope and pra}' 
Lifting the hands 
That framed all lands 
He will say — Benedicite ! 

September, 1885. 



285 



WHAT MATTERS IT? 



What reck we of the creeds of men ? — 
We see them-^we shall see again. 

What reck we of the tempest's shock ? 

What reck we \\ here our anchor lock ? 
On golden marl or mould — 

In salt-sea flower or riven rock — 
What matter — so it hold ? 

II. 

What matters it the spot we fill 

On Earth's green sod when all is said ?- 

When feet and hands and heart are still 
And all our pulses quieted ? 

When hate or love can kill nor thrill, — 
When we are done witli life and dead ? 



286 



What Matters It ? 



So we be haunted night nor da}- 
By an}' sin that we have sinned, 

What matter where we dream away 
The ages ? — In the isles of Ind, 

In Tybee, Cuba, or Cathay, 

Or in some world of winter wind ? 



IV. 



It may be I would wish to sleep 

Beneath the wan, white stars of June, 

And hear the southern breezes creep 
Between me and the mellow moon ; 

But so I do not wake to weep 
At an}' night or any noon, 



287 



What Matters It ? 



And so the generous gods allow 

Repose and peace from evil dreams, 

It matters little where or how 

My couch be spread : — by moving streams, 

Or on some eminent mountain's brow 
Kist by the morn's or sunset's beams. 



VI. 

For we shall rest ; the brain that planned. 
That thought or wrought or well or ill, 

At gaze like Joshua's moon shall stand. 
Not working any work or will, 

While eye and lip and heart and hand 
Shall all be still— shall all be still ! 



HIS LAST POEM~MY FATE.- 

Away and beyond that point of pines, 

Away in a spot where the glad grapes be, 

Purple and pendant on verdant vines. 
That Fate of mine is awaiting me. 

And if no more the wind blows true 
To waft me afar to that island sweet, 

Beyond that greater and other blue 
I feel that I and my fate shall meet. 

For the hope that is can never fade, 

And the hope that is can never fall. 
That Fate was law since the world was made. 

That it shall be law till the end of all. 

And Time may be long or it may be brief 
Ere I stand on that dim and unknown shore. 

And grief or joy be mine, but grief 

Can dwell not there — where we meet once more. 



"Found in his pocket after his death. — C. J. C. 
19 289 



Li'Bn\)oi. 



)o tbe Poets of tbe Past and Rutu 



re. 




291 



THE PAST. 

With reverent hands your books we close, 

O poets of the imperfect Past ! 
The East grows rudd}' as the rose 

And tells us that the Night at last 
Goes from our planet, banished with her woes 

Goes banished forth with all her wrong : 
While all her pontiffs, priests, and kings. 

Who trampled on the weak, being strong, 
Are laid aside — forgotten things, — 

And we must open up new books of song. 

We give 3'ou justice. In the days 

When Freedom knew not her own name. 

Ye dared to know and sing her praise 
In words that fanned to fuller flame 

Our own less rude, imperishable la3'S. 



293 



THE FUTURE. 

O poet of the future ! I, 

Of the dead Present, bid thee hail ! 
Come forth and speak, — our speech shall die 

Come forth and sing, — our song shall fail : 
Our speech, our song fall barren, — we go by ! 

Our heart is weak. In vain it swells 
And beats to bursting at the wrong : 

There never sets a sun but tells 

Of weak ones trampled down by strong, 

Of Truth and Justice both immured in cells. 

We would aspire, but round us lies 
A maze of high desires and aims ; 

Would seek a prize, but, ah ! our eyes 
Fail as we face the fallen fames 

Of the great world's Olympian games. 



294 



The Fttture. 



Seeing the victors vanquished, we 

Grow heartsick at the sight, and choose 

To hold in fee what things there be 
Rather than in the hazard use, — 

Than stake the all we have — to lose ! 

We all are feeble. Still we tread 

An ever-upward sloping way ; 
Deep chasms and dark are round us spread 

And bale-fires beckon us astray : 
But thou shalt stand upon the mountain head. 

But thou wilt look with gladdened e3''es 

And see the mist of error flee, 
And see the happy suns arise 

Of happier days that are to be, — 
On greener, gladder earth, and clearer skies. 

We, of the Morning, but behold 
The dawn afar : thine eye shall see 

The full and perfect day unfold, — 
The full and perfect day to be. 

When Justice shall return as lovely as of old. 



2^5 



The Fziture. 



Thou, with unloosened tongue, shalt speak 
In words of subtle, silver sound, — 

In words not futile now, nor weak. 
To all the nations listening round 

Until they seek the light, — nor vainly seek ! 

We only ask it as our share, 

That, when your day-star rises clear, — 
A perfect splendor in the air, — 

A glory ever, far and near, — 
Ye write such words — -as these of tJiosc who were ! 
Kingston, September, 1885. 




296 







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